By the Way
by Provocative Envy
Summary: COMPLETE: It was exquisite, the way his face fell, the way his eyes grew round, the way his mouth dropped open: he was a study in disappointment, his dashed hopes cluttering the space that loomed large and noticeable in between us. HG/DM.
1. Prologue

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I'm back! How lovely. This new piece of mine is in Hermione's point of view, actually, and starts off right in the middle of the most sensuous, most meaningful moment of her young life. This is a Draco/Hermione love story, of course, but starts off as Hermione/Ron. This won't be quite so angst-ridden, but be purely the result of my foray into existentialism: rather than devising all sorts of horrible thing to happen to these characters, they will simply be living everyday life. There's beauty and romance and drama in that, too, it turns out. So on with this, the prologue: I'll be writing more tomorrow, with actual dialogue and whatnot. This is just the beginning.

OOO

**PROLOGUE**

I was falling, falling, falling: quickly and slowly and gloriously. Tumbling, twisting, turning my way through an entirely different kind of pressure: this wasn't atmospheric, not even a little bit, but it was pressing in on me from all sides like some kind of achingly soft, achingly eternal body bag. I was shutting my eyes against the rush of reality, rather than air, that I knew must be rushing towards my unprotected face, that I knew must be aiming for my unprotected heart. I didn't want to hit the ground, didn't want this magnificently hectic, perfectly unbalanced and unplanned descent to end.

"Hermione," he whispered wonderingly, his lips fluttering so, so close to mine, close enough to touch, close enough to radiate heat like a furnace. His hands were trembling at my waist, his splayed fingers clutching gently, his jagged, dirty fingernails digging into my skin.

I reached up tentatively, hoping against hope that this time would be different, that this time he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't run away, wouldn't snap his eyebrows together and regard me with suspicion: hoping that this time, when I brushed that infernal lock of brilliant, fiery hair out of his eyes, he would let me, that this time he would gaze at me with something that might have been called love, that this time he would press closer.

"I've wanted this for--" he broke off, his front teeth catching his bottom lip, which was nothing so much as satin against my own, the friction the sweetest embodiment of physics I'd ever known.

"So long," I finished softly, pulling backwards a fraction of an inch, just in time to watch his eyelids fall, just in time for him to close off the remaining distance and capture my mouth, my heart, my everything: he tasted better than my dreams, better than my fantasies, that was all I could think, all I could bother thinking when I was wrapped in his homemade sweater, wrapped in his arms with a fire crackling merrily behind us, with a sprig of mistletoe dangling dangerously off the chandelier above us.

My head was pounding, blood coursing through my veins with alarming velocity, almost as fast as my racing pulse, almost as fast as the speed with which I'd tripped into this proverbial rabbit hole of stupefaction; I couldn't remember unbuttoning my nightgown, couldn't remember flinging his paisley pajama bottoms across the closest armchair; I couldn't remember stopping to fumble our way to his empty dormitory, to his even emptier four-poster; I couldn't remember his desperate hesitation in snapping the curtains closed, couldn't remember his groans of satisfaction when I'd shifted my hips against his; I couldn't remember the way our legs had tangled together somehow, couldn't remember the way his callused thumbs had rubbed circles against my inner thighs; I couldn't remember my breathless pleading, my sweaty anticipation, my silent scream of euphoria when he'd touched me, finally; I couldn't remember anything, anything at all, nothing except the feel of his mattress, feathery and deep and such a marvelous cushion for our shameless irresponsibility, such a marvelous cloud that alleviated my fear, mitigated my regrets.

I couldn't remember anything but the finale, an explosion of chaos and fireworks and internal combustion and a million other things, fragments of pleasure, of desire, that had come together for just the tiniest split second, the briefest flash of time, only to burst apart and shower me with the remnants of their sensationalism; I couldn't remember anything but that last, blissful moment of supreme relaxation, of weightlessness and exhaustion and astonishment, yes, astonishment that I hadn't discovered this state of abject elation before then, that I hadn't been conscious enough to savor it, that I hadn't had the presence of mind to transcribe everything I was feeling, to bottle it up inside and look at it whenever I felt lonely or sad or tired.

But then I rolled over, my head landing on his chest, and all I could do was personify the most boring of all anticlimaxes: I slept, so peacefully and so soundly that I didn't even dream.

I rather thought they'd all come true, anyway.

OOO


	2. I

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER ONE**

_**Three Months Later**_

"—I just don't think this is working anymore, and it's not even you, not really, it's me--"

_Stop, please, just stop,_ I wanted to yell, my entire precept of reality fracturing: it couldn't be happening, shouldn't be happening.

"—and I know that if you would just consider, just for a second, what we've had together, you'd realize, like I have, that, really, we're better off not being so intimate--"

_Why is he still talking?_ I wondered, the sound of my heartbeat deafening in my private little sanctuary of pain: it felt so wonderful to let myself be the victim, so deliciously wonderful to allow myself a brief reprieve from perfection and wallow in well-deserved self-pity.

"—surely you know I'd never want to hurt you, that that's the last thing I'd ever want, but I just don't think this is making either of us happy anymore, Hermione--"

_Oh? And how do you know what's making me happy?_ I interjected inwardly, blinking back tears I hadn't wanted to shed, hadn't expected to shed; oh, but it shouldn't have hurt so much, shouldn't have been such a surprise: such an unwelcome, unwanted, utterly unnecessary surprise.

"—are you even listening to me? Hermione? Hello? God, here I was, worried about your feelings, and you can't even bring yourself to listen to--"

_Stay strong, stay fast, don't cry, come on, it'll be over in a moment, just a moment, stay strong, please please please, don't collapse, don't cry, choke it back, come on, make it stop, no, no, no, just a bit longer, just a bit, look, see, he's stopping, he's leaving, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry:_ a blizzard of hapless thoughts and demands flurried through my mind, seemingly endless, seemingly infinite.

But the sight of his disgusted, indignant face must have pulled the trigger for that waterfall of emotions I'd held back so staunchly, so rigidly, because right when he reached the doorway, right when he put his hand on the wooden frame, a sob, muffled and wet, emerged from my lips, so efficiently pressed together, but apparently not efficiently enough; because he looked back, startled, concerned, confused, his blue eyes narrowing, then widening, then fluttering shut in despair.

But by the time he realized he should be comforting me, offering me an embrace, an apology, _something_, I had squared my shoulders and pushed past him, my mind zeroing in on that one word in my mantra that had made any sense at all: _collapse._

_Collapse._

_Collapse._

OOO

He'd said it was because he felt awkward.

As if whatever mild discomfiture he'd been enduring for the entirety of our relationship was worth the dismantling of my carefully constructed, carefully maintained world of rules and stability and logic. As if his feelings, insubstantial and fickle, were of greater import than my own.

As if I would let him get away with shoving me headfirst into the dizzy, exhilarating throes of happiness, of carelessness, only to be snatched back out with the cruelest, most meaningless excuse possible: _it's not you, really, it's me_.

Hours later, in bed, I could almost laugh at the cliché, at his near comical indifference; but one glance at the dried up, pressed bunch of mistletoe under my pillow quickly dispelled any hilarity I might have been able to find in the sorry mess that had become my picture-perfect, fairytale relationship.

We were so cute together, everyone had gushed; our personalities so compatible, even with our constant bickering. We finished each other's sentences all the time, exchanged secretive smiles from across crowded rooms, and hadn't Lavender assured me that those were signs of true love? Hadn't she, on more than one occasion, sighed wistfully and wished out loud for someone to hold her like Ron had held me? Hadn't that mean anything? _Didn't _that meant anything?

And then, of course, there had been Malfoy's snide comments in the hallways, remarks designed to fluster Ron, to enrage me; remarks about my hair, my teeth, my prissy outward demeanor; remarks about Ron's family, Ron's looks, Ron's complete inability to do anything right in class.

Remarks about how we'd be breaking up, any day now, destroying any chance of the comfortable threesome me, Harry, and Ron had become of making it to the end of Seventh Year.

Galling, but true: Malfoy had been right, I'd been wrong.

So very, very wrong.

_Awkward_, I repeated to myself before succumbing to a fitful slumber, _awkward_.

And then, in the nanoseconds before my breathing finally turned normal, I felt a solitary tear, surely shimmering like the diamond it wasn't, slide down my face.

_My, what an awkward collapse_, I thought bitterly.

_Collapse._

_Collapse._

I didn't sleep well.

OOO

"Oh, look, it's Granger. Careful, boys, she might start crying again," Malfoy was snickering when I walked by him the next day, alone.

"Yes, since I'm just a veritable waterspout now," I drawled sarcastically, steadfastly avoiding his probing, pitiless gray gaze.

"According to Weasley, yes," he replied, then paused for a dramatic effect, letting his brief silence trickle like so much anxiety down my spine, less thrilling than frightening. "But maybe that's only when he's dumping you for Brown."

And there it was.

That moment: that moment where everything awful and horrible and unexpected crashes together and you don't even want to try and breathe for fear you won't be able to, for fear that if you do, it'll just prolong the agony, just compound your humiliation, your shame, your stultifying mortification so that nothing, nothing, _nothing_ could possibly make it better, make it palatable; that moment where you know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that it simply cannot get any worse, that you've plummeted to depths you never thought you'd reach, never thought you'd sink low enough to experience.

I'd thought that being dumped so callously by the boy I'd been in love with for the majority of my adolescence was punishment enough for whatever transgression I'd mistakenly committed: I'd never imagined that my confidence could be so completely shattered, broken, mangled beyond recognition.

I'd never imagined that Draco Malfoy, of all people, would be the one to witness it.

"Oh my God. Don't tell me you didn't _know_," he gushed viciously, his excitement palpable in the narrow corridor.

"Oh, go jump in front of a train, Malfoy," I returned disgustedly, hoping he couldn't hear my voice quiver. "Of course I knew."

The lie slipped easily from my tongue, and, for a fleeting few seconds, I believed it. But I knew Malfoy, the king of mistruths and mistrust, would see through it immediately, hone in on my obvious weakness, tear me to shreds with his scorn, his malice, his hatred of everything I was and everything I represented.

"No," he countered slowly, "I really don't think you did."

He stared at me, assessing my bleak countenance, my too-bright eyes and my too-brittle voice.

And then he smirked.

"Poor little Granger. All lonely and sad. Careful you don't catch them kissing: wouldn't want you to collapse, would we?"

_Too late,_ I thought.

_Collapse._

_Collapse._

OOO


	3. II

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWO**

I had quickly, effortlessly, disconcertingly fell into a routine: wake up, eat breakfast, stay quiet, smile big, smile pretty, ignore the whispers, the sidelong glances, the pitying stares, walk fast, eat lunch, walk faster, head down, smile big, smile pretty, pretend it's all okay, everything's okay, that no, no I wasn't the least bit surprised, the least bit upset, eat dinner, walk even faster, blink back tears, break into a run, eyes shut, eyes shut so tight, stumble sightlessly into a room, any room would do, cry, cry, cry, wait for it, wait for it, dash to the library, write mindless, perfect essays, my quill scratching across the parchment with almost blinding efficiency, trudge back to my dormitory, dragging my feet, dragging my heart, smile big, smile pretty, dump my books on the floor, crawl into bed, ignore the whispers, the sidelong glances, the pitying stares, sleep, sleep, sleep, blessed sleep, dreamless sleep.

Every day, it was the same.

And every day, it killed me a little bit more.

I knew that I was falling, headlong, into an abyss of melancholy and regret; I knew that I needed to snap out of my self-pity, to take a deep breath and remember that I was Hermione Granger: bookworm, Gryffindor, connoisseur of bravery and honor and a million other attributes I wasn't so certain I possessed in abundance.

Not anymore.

The oddest thing, though, was that the roaring, gnawing, pitiful heartbreak I'd felt initially had subsided almost immediately into a dull ache, the kind that does nothing but eat away at your happiness, at your chances at happiness, even. I could look at Ron and not want to fling my arms around his neck, not want to say something witty and funny and clever to catch his attention and make him smile.

But facing the hundreds of unfriendly strangers who knew every last, lurid detail of my fall from grace: that was harder than I could have ever imagined.

I was used to the scrutiny, used to the rumors. I could handle the derision and the scorn and even the malice.

But the pity, the _pity_ was the clincher for my dissatisfaction.

And every time I was forced to avert my startled, stunned gaze after accidentally stumbling upon Ron and Lavender holding hands, or Ron and Lavender kissing, or Ron and Lavender being nauseatingly, superfluously, pretentiously cute; every time I looked away and feigned indifference, the sorry, sorry glances I received from compassionate but relieved-it-wasn't-them classmates were like paper cuts: irritating and sharp and ridiculously, unreasonably, bafflingly painful.

And I couldn't take it.

Not anymore.

OOO

He was alone.

Amazingly enough, he was finally alone.

I approached him cautiously, cursing my cowardice but unable to suppress a shiver of fear: There were too many chances that he would turn away, too many chances that he would reject me as soundly as he had just a few weeks earlier.

But somehow I found myself standing in front of him, unflinchingly meeting his eyes, my hands clasped and shaking behind my back. Somehow, he was smiling crookedly at me, warmly greeting me, and making his inquiry about my wellbeing sound genuine. Somehow, I wasn't bawling, wasn't hyperventilating, wasn't saying anything that would foolishly belie my confidence and my serenity and my contentment.

Somehow, it seemed like everything was going to be okay.

Until he suddenly adopted a grimace of contrition, and patted my shoulder in a vaguely fraternal manner, and asked me if everything was really, truly okay.

And before I could stop myself, before I could even think twice about what a suitable answer might pertain, I'd said the one thing, the only thing, that would make the tension and the awkwardness and the unease even worse.

"I miss you," I blurted out.

A muscle in his jaw started working, then, and he opened and closed his mouth more times than I could bother counting, the sounds of unfinished words escaping, sometimes rough, sometimes soft, sometimes sympathetic.

Then finally, finally, finally he answered:

"Hermione, we weren't…we didn't make each other happy," he said quietly, resolutely.

"We didn't?" I whispered, confused, so confused, wondering why I was putting myself through this torture a second time, wondering if this was an addiction, wondering if I could really stand it again, wondering if he would really say it again.

"We did for awhile," he admitted.

"Then what--" my voice broke, caught itself, broke again. "What went wrong?"

He stared at my lips for a long, long moment, his stance rigid, his posture contemplative.

"It wasn't enough," he said softly, shrugging.. "It just wasn't enough."

_It wasn't enough it wasn't enough it wasn't enough it wasn't enough, but oh, my God this shouldn't hurt this much, make it stop make it stop, did he really just say that, did he really just shatter me again and again and again, did he mean it, he couldn't mean it, why does this hurt so much, it shouldn't be surprising, it shouldn't hurt, why does it hurt, make it stop, it wasn't enough it wasn't enough it wasn't enough, stop, stop, stop, make it stop, it hurts, it hurts so much, but it wasn't enough, it wasn't enough, it wasn't enough: _My eardrums were pounding from the rush of blood to my head at his pronouncement, my head flooded with his voice, my voice, saying the same things over and over, repetition my only escape from the bewilderment and the shock and the irrelevant agitation.

"It never is, is it?" I managed to ask before plowing past him and pushing open the door to the girls' restroom.

I waited for the tears I was sure were on their way, waited for my thin frame to be wracked by insuppressible sobs, sobs that I could muffle, maybe, if I just turned on the taps at the sink, if I could just take a few more steps in that direction before playing the victim one last time.

I twisted the four-pronged handle at the porcelain basin, watching in disillusioned fascination at the steady stream of crystal-clear water coming out of the spout. Slowly, I reached out and moved my fingers through the fluid, watched the rivulets I created cascade down my wrists, watched the relentlessly perfect barrage of water flow, uninterrupted, down the drain.

I was struck, then, by how resplendently unrelenting water was. It appeared, on the surface, so transparent, so fragile, so easy to tear through, to tear down.

But it never broke.

No matter what happened, it stayed cohesive, it stayed together.

It stayed whole.

And maybe it wasn't enough.

Maybe it never would be.

But it was a start.

OOO


	4. III

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER THREE**

"Hey, Granger, been caught crying lately?" Malfoy's voice, mocking and cutting and exhaustingly familiar, sliced through the peaceful quietude of the library later that day with almost military precision: he was on a mission, a quest, almost, to trample as much of my newfound simplicity as possible.

And I was so very tired of it.

"Not that I can recall. Why? Have you?" I returned icily, the implied insult falling clumsily out of my mouth: I felt out of practice with our routinely cruel, customarily sharp wordplay.

"Since I haven't been pushed aside for a twittering airhead anytime in recent memory, I can't say I've been given any reason to. Unlike _some_ people in this school," he added thoughtfully, pointedly; I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back the deep, deep breaths I knew I should be taking, that I knew would give away my inner turmoil.

"And unlike some people in this school, you have no concept of common courtesy, morals, and all around pleasantness. So please excuse me as I acquit myself of your…_illustrious_ presence," I shot back, brimming with the kind of sarcasm I could only ever muster up around him; brimming with the kind of bitterness and constriction I only ever felt around him.

I had never understood why he hated me so much. I had never understood why picking on me brought him such unabashed pleasure. If it all came down to the circumstances of our respective births, I could argue just as logically that his bloodlines were so convoluted, so intricately and brutally guarded, that he gave new meaning to the phrase 'close family ties'. I could make the reasonable observation that where I came from, in my world, my society, his age-old, traditional practice of intermarrying with second cousins, first cousins even, was considered a horrifyingly outdated and unhealthy method of procreation.

"Illustrious, you say?" he repeated with a sneer. "Finally, it seems, you've learned your place."

"Oh, of course. I never would have dreamed that senseless servitude to an inferior would feel so, so good," I replied scathingly, the barest hint of my temper simmering to the surface.

"Senseless would definitely be the more apt word to describe your loyal, loving, ever so faithful ex-fiancée, I think," he retorted, smirking.

"Not that you would know anything about that," I replied, outwardly calm. "Since Pansy's an outright academic, correct?"

His eyes, normally a placid, shuttered gray, stormed to life; this was the part of our encounters that I dreaded, the part where it got hard: hard to breathe, hard to speak, hard to find the courage to look up and see animosity, loads of it; to look up and see anger, the insuppressible kind.

"Compared to Brown, maybe," he seethed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against my table. "That girl doesn't have much going for her, except for the obvious."

"The obvious being her complete lack of affiliation with you?" I guessed sweetly, trying to ignore the way my palms were sweating, the way his jaw was clenching.

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of her being quite the exact opposite of you," he answered, rudely scanning my body, my face: all of a sudden, I was aware, so aware, of how I'd been in a rush that morning and had hurriedly tied my hair back in a messy excuse for a bun, how my skin was probably patchy and red from the crying I hadn't been able to do earlier, how skinny and unfeminine and boyish my figure was, even hidden under layers and layers of clothing.

"If you're referring to her complete illiteracy, we're in agreement," I managed to choke out, knowing, knowing, knowing what was coming next yet being unable to shield myself, unable to stop it. Dimly, I wondered if my ego could stand this.

"No, I'm not sure Weasley cares too terribly much about how many OWLS she got. I'm talking about all the ways that matter. Silly little Mudblood," he tittered, knowing he'd found his mark, knowing, knowing, knowing in the way that only he could that he'd struck the fatal blow, that it was only a matter of time before I withdrew and tried to maintain a semblance of control, tried to retain a sliver of dignity.

But then, just when his lips had started stretching into a heinous approximation of a smile, something happened.

It started to rain.

Outside, I watched as raindrops fell, one by one, slowly at first, then faster, faster, drizzles and torrents and chaotically imperfect patterns. And I was reminded, all at once, of the frailty of water, of its seemingly infinite threshold for pain; but water couldn't feel pain, could it, so maybe it wasn't pain, maybe it was something far simpler, far more basic and common and normal.

Maybe, just maybe, it didn't break because it didn't let itself.

Maybe, just maybe, it didn't break because it was, for all intents and purposes, too strong to.

"Not everyone's as shallow as you, Malfoy," I finally said, catching his gaze.

"That's what all the smart girls want to think," he told me with a harsh laugh, shaking his head in mock pity.

"And how would you know? I certainly don't see you spending very much time with any," I bit out, incensed.

"My powers of deduction are quite up to the task, let me assure you," he retorted.

"Clearly. After all, you did manage to determine that Pansy was the only girl in the school who'd do--"

"Ha! I'm sure you were stupendously happy with the Weasel once you realized everyone but you two was--"

"Oh, come off it, better him than someone who'd require a _paper bag over her head_ to make _anything_ even come _close_ to happening, let alone--"

"As opposed to picking the one redhead in the history of the school who confessed his undying love with all the finesse of a Neanderthal?" he burst out, his pale face flushed and his voice overloud.

"Better than the girl who doesn't even know what a Neanderthal _is_!" I shouted, pushing my chair back and leaping to my feet.

"Oh, like the Weasel does? At least when you explained it to him all you'd need is a _mirror_!" he yelled.

"Which would most _certainly_ come in handy if the concept of _inbred egomaniacs_ was ever called into question!" I returned, flipping a strand of hair out of my eyes.

"Since I'd _much_ rather be a bushy-haired personification of the word _desperate_!" he shouted heatedly.

"At least you wouldn't be a pathetically intermittent, pitifully inept version of your _father_ anymore!"

"Speaking of idolatry, maybe if you stopped worshipping Potter for more than eight seconds you'd learn to see what's right in front of you! Like you _boyfriend cheating on you_!"

"_Children! _Stop this yelling _at once_."

Madam Pince's voice cut through our individual tirades, effectively ending what had turned into the longest battle of wits I'd ever been engaged in with Malfoy. We glared at each other as we collected our things, not trusting ourselves to speak.

It was still raining when I got back to my dormitory.

OOO


	5. IV

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Very, very short chapter. But very important. Draco will make another appearance next time, worry not.

OOO

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_Ginny,_

_There is nothing so magical as hearing him laugh: Throaty and breathless, warm and rich. Is it weird that I think I've memorized every inflection, every distortion, every tone of voice, only to be proven wrong when I see him at breakfast and he tells me something wonderful? Something that isn't outrageously clever, or outrageous at all, but just because he's saying it, just because he's sharing it, it's brilliant and witty and compounds his irresistibility so effectively I can't think?_

_Is it pathetic that he can make me laugh so hard and so much that breathing becomes a chore? That he can make me shiver, make me tingle, make me ache with anticipation I don't even understand, just with a vague comment, a mercilessly brief description?_

_The funny thing about it, though, is that this codependency, for all its overwhelming complexity, didn't hit me all at once; it was gradual, and I let it happen, I let it seep into me inch by everlasting inch, oblivious to its consequences by choice or naivety—I don't know which. With the foresight of a romantic masquerading as a cynic, I saw what would happen in I continued to be charmed, complimented, entertained._

_But like something forbidden and secret, I was lured by the temptation of intrinsic, inherent, and unconditional love. I wanted his affection, I wanted his promises. I wanted his chuckle, and his irony, and his sensitivity; I wanted his past, and his present, and his future. I wanted it all…and I took it._

My fingers were frozen, clutching the paper that had fallen out of my never-used Divination textbook from third year; the letter, the stupid, _stupid_ letter that I'd written to Ginny mere days before her brother had ruined me: the letter that I'd never given her, never sent, never looked at again.

I remembered writing it, that was the thing. I remembered choosing my words carefully, remembered trying to describe, to capture the feelings I was so sure were genuine, was so sure were real. I remembered thinking, at the time, that this was It, that this was what people spent their whole lives waiting for, that wasn't I just so lucky to have found it this early? Wasn't I just so fortunate to not have to be patient anymore, to not have to search and search for The One?

Wasn't I?

My argument with Malfoy the day before seemed excessively trivial, even immature, as I reread and reread and reread my childishly confident, childishly certain, childishly secure missive.

With a shaking hand, I picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and added something, something that seemed to sum up the last few weeks, maybe the last few months, with astonishing clarity:

_And I think it was a terrible mistake._

It didn't signify that the ink was drying a different color, or that my handwriting was jumpy, scratchy, completely unlike the obsessively neat lines above it; it didn't matter that time had passed, that I had four heartbreakingly poignant weeks behind me.

What mattered, really, was that I'd finally realized what had been staring me in the face for who knew how long, for who knew how often: I hadn't made any mistakes, not really.

He had _been_ the mistake.

And I'd been terribly, terribly stupid to hold onto him.

Ten minutes later, I watched with an inscrutable sense of accomplishment, satisfaction, really, as my undated letter to Ginny was engulfed in flames.

The ashes blended in so very perfectly with the other debris.

So very, very perfectly.

OOO


	6. V

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Don't accuse me of using a cliché at the end of this chapter. _Please_. Because it's not. Not _really_. I promise. This chapter was so beautifully poignant to me, so invaluable to the story and to me, the author, that I didn't want to sully it with classic, boring clichés. But I'd been stuck on this chapter for days now, and miraculously an ending and a middle and a perfect, perfect last chapter presented itself to me today; and the only way to get it was through falling back on the heinously overused "put them in detention together" scenario. But if you have any faith in me as a writer, you'll know that I will _not_ turn this into something not worth reading.

But, also, I needed something unpleasant, but not dramatic, to finalize Hermione's breakthrough. A breath of reality to cauterize her gushing, rushing empowerment. I really do adore Hermione as a character, love all the complexity and insecurity and how she's such a paradox, such a crumbling pillar of juvenile behavior and wonderful brilliance and bravery and confrontation. I love humanizing her and I love writing her.

OOO

**CHAPTER FIVE**

"Watch it, Granger," he muttered angrily, pointlessly: all I'd done was knock his elbow in passing; all I'd done was brush his sleeve with my book bag.

"You watch it," I replied tightly, belligerently: all he'd done was fling a harmless accusation; all he'd done was blame me for something meaningless, something that he wouldn't remember in a day, in an hour, even.

"Sorry, but I try not to make allowances for clumsy Mudbloods," he fired back, clearly in the mood for confrontation.

"Oh, well don't _I _feel special," I returned sarcastically. "And here I thought you never made allowances for anyone."

"No, that's just what you thought to make yourself feel better about being left out," he observed wisely, smirking.

"Since there's just so many requirements to being exempted from your selfish nastiness?" I asked sweetly.

"Well, there's at least one. Which you can't ever meet. Being born to soft-hearted idiots is, after all, a hindrance," he answered casually, inspecting his fingernails.

"Because of course being born to disloyal sadists is so much better."

"You're just bitter because you lowered your standards enough to date a Weasley, only to find out that not even _he_ wanted you," Malfoy bit out, nostrils flaring.

I literally stopped breathing.

He watched me, waiting for a reaction, a retort, _something_.

I continued to hold on to my steadily depleting supply of oxygen, waiting for him to notice that I wasn't, in fact, inhaling like a normal person.

But he didn't notice; he didn't notice, and he didn't stop talking.

"Oh, don't pretend to be all shocked. _Everyone_ saw it, Granger. _Everyone_ knew that he was your last resort, that after Krum dropped you anyone would do. So you picked him, the one boy in the whole school who might be desperate enough to put up with you, the neurotic bookworm," he went on.

And all I could think, since _doing_ something was out of the question in my present state, was: _what a hateful, hateful boy._

"But even _he_, dense little Weasel that he is, realized _you weren't worth it._ You weren't pretty enough, weren't interesting enough, were too wrapped up in you, you, you; he didn't love you enough, didn't want to love you enough, and you can't stand it, can you? You can't--"

"_Shut up, Malfoy!"_

I could barely believe it was my voice, so astonishing was its pitch, its tone; so astonishing was its raw, blunt assertiveness.

_This_ was the Hermione Granger that had been missing for the past four months; _this_ was the Hermione Granger everyone thought I was, everyone thought I had the potential to be.

"Just _shut up_ for once in your pathetic life. You have no idea what you're talking about, none at all, and if you possess even one tiny _shred_ of intelligence you will _stop talking_ before I hex you into the next millennia," I threatened, surprised by the strength of my conviction, the strength of my words.

I'd been living in a fog for weeks. I realized that then. I'd been noticing things, doing things, saying things: but so little of it had mattered, so little of it had held any significance for me. I hadn't wanted to get attached, hadn't wanted to invest any emotion into anything I did or said, in case everything fell away and abandoned me, in case everything ceased to exist and all I was left with was that gnawing, aching emptiness that had engulfed me for so long, for too long.

I had fought with Malfoy, said things meant to sting, to bite, to hurt; but I was so terrified that he'd say something that stung a little bit more, or bit a little more ferociously, or hurt me a little more effectively, that I'd held back any sort of feeling, any sort of passion.

I'd wasted a whole month crying and wondering and waiting and being so pitifully, haphazardly apathetic: all I could remember, all I could recall, was hitting rock-bottom, reliving moment after moment of embarrassing weakness, shameful vulnerability. All I could remember, all I could recall, was holding my breath and hoping hoping _hoping_ that someone, anyone, would come and rescue me, would save me from the loneliness and the silence and the awful, awful pain I'd succumbed to.

But Malfoy had recovered from his initial bewilderment at my forcefulness, and I had no more time to reflect, no more time to marvel at my revelations.

"Oh? And you'd dare to do that in this hallowed haven of learning? This sanctuary of academia?" he taunted, preying on my love of books, of knowledge.

I laughed out loud at this: anger and indignation and simple, simple understanding meshing together and giving me courage.

"I would dare to do plenty where you're concerned," I replied easily, twirling my wand in my hand and smiling blandly.

"Then go ahead and hex me, Granger. Please. I _dare_ you," he said mockingly.

It all happened in slow motion, as if I was in a daze, a dream, a movie, even: he issued his precious little dare, his lips twisted into something that might have been called a grin, if he hadn't been barely trembling with barely concealed fear; I watched him for a moment, measuring my options, measuring if he was worth it; I decided that it didn't matter if he was or wasn't, that I needed to do something, anything, to prove I wasn't indifferent, not anymore, that I wasn't cut out for it; I pointed my wand, took a second to pull my hair out of my face; that second was crucial, really, since as soon as I'd opened my mouth to speak, a hand, gnarled and strong, landed on my shoulder, stopping me, freezing him; Madam Pince, authority figure and librarian, lover of silence and hater of children, ranted and raved at us for what seemed an eternity; finally, _finally_, we were allowed to go, forced to go, practically; but then, just as we gathered our things, snarling at each other, she issued one last decree: _oh, by the way, children, you both have detention with Filch for the rest of the week._

I saw the price of my pride reflected in Malfoy's cold, brittle, fathomlessly expressive eyes.

OOO


	7. VI

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Sorry it's been awhile. I've been exceptionally busy now that I am that much closer to graduating college and entering that real world I've been hearing so much about. But I did remember to finish this chapter, since I've been mostly done with it for several weeks now. I just had to get the ending right. But, anyways, this chapter's a bit strange, I must say. It didn't make that much sense to me until I reread it, but I'm thinking that's because I have _mastered_ the art of subtle subtlety, and just get this sick thrill out of putting characters through loads of angst before thrusting self-actualization at them and then snatching it back, replacing it with an astonishing amount of confusion. The confusion part I think I did rather well with, though. Hermione's thoughts are sufficiently muddled and indecipherable and whatnot.

I would also like to point out that even though her previous breakthrough was much more detailed and obvious, I don't believe in momentous epiphanies; therefore, her understanding and realization and romance will naturally be prolonged and gradual. She has awhile to go before she's completely able to get past her regret and her pain and all that. Baby steps, you know.

Anyways, I have a good grasp on where I want this to go, and even have an idea for the ending, as far off as that may be. It's a happy one.

OOO

**CHAPTER SIX**

I shouldn't have cared.

I shouldn't have watched.

I shouldn't have done anything except quietly close the portrait hole and walk sedately back to the library, or maybe the closest girls' room, or maybe any dark hallway corner would do: I should have run away to cry, or think, or think about crying.

But I shouldn't have stayed rooted to the spot, my eyes unblinking, unfocused, unprepared for the sight that awaited me.

"Oh, Ron. This is like a _dream_," Lavender's voice, high-pitched and girly and sensuous, pervaded my every last nerve: I wanted to scream, to jump, to hit and choke and sob and do a million other things, except I couldn't decide which would be more fulfilling, ultimately, or which would make the most sense, or which would inflict the most damage, or which would make it all just _go away_, because I'd been so good at forgetting, I'd done so well just that afternoon, I couldn't fall back into _that_, could I, that wouldn't be fair, it just wouldn't be fair, and it shouldn't happen, wouldn't happen, I couldn't let it.

Could I?

"I know," he responded softly, smiling and holding her tight. "I've wanted this for…"

"So long," she finished for him.

And then they laughed, and all I could do was marvel at my complete, abject, astonishing stupidity.

Abruptly, I didn't want to cry.

Abruptly, I wanted to slap myself for falling, in every sense of the word, for _that:_ fickle, average, pathetic, uninspired; he was everything I'd never wanted, and I'd let myself be caught up in all the ways he was wrong for me, told myself that he was perfect, even.

Abruptly, I wanted to shout out to Lavender that she was right, it _was_ like a dream: because dreams, especially dreams, always come to an end.

Dreams didn't last forever.

Dreams always always _always_ stopped right when you got to the good part.

I didn't know if Lavender was the type of person who remembered her dreams; I didn't really care either way.

All that mattered, suddenly, was that I _was_.

I was the type of person who remembered their dreams, every last detail.

But most of all, I remembered how they ended.

OOO

"This is _all_ your fault, you know," Malfoy hissed into my ear the next evening, the sound of his decisive derision cutting into the ceaseless scraping of my quill across the parchment veiling the desk.

"It is, isn't it? Since, you know, I really do argue with _myself_ on a highly regular basis," I returned politely, refusing to look at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"I wouldn't doubt it. Habits like that were probably what drove the Weasel away in the first place," he remarked testily.

My fingers squeezed the quill.

_Quiet, stay quiet, just let it go, he'll stop, he has to, just stay quiet._

"Not that he really needed a host of reasons," he continued blithely. "I mean, no one's exactly _condemning_ him for dropping you like that."

My grip was so tight that I was trembling, the barely formed letters on the page before me blurry.

_It isn't true, it doesn't matter, just let it go, let it go, stop thinking, remember who it is, it doesn't matter, it never will, just let it go._

"What, no witty repartee, Granger? Nothing cutting and wry and devastatingly clever to say?" he demanded silkily, thinking he'd won, finally, thinking he'd rendered me silent, rendered me mute.

The quill snapped.

"I should be used to you by now, shouldn't I?" I asked shakily. "I should be used to you devising all sorts of ways to hurt me, to make sure I know my place, to demean me again, and again, and _again_."

I paused, wondering if he'd interrupt.

"For years, I've wanted to ask you _why_. Seriously. It actually, at one point, _mattered_ to me _why_ you hated me so very much. I couldn't comprehend the simplicity of it, couldn't understand how someone could be so callous and cruel and mean and _not_ have anything other than bloodlines and association to go by."

I smiled slightly then, a little sadly and a little triumphantly; a little disoriented and a little resolute.

"But it makes sense now. Really. You're just…" I trailed off, uncertain how to finish.

And then I looked at him, really looked at him, and realized that I'd painted his portrait all wrong, all along, that I'd stereotyped and judged and been so subjective, so hypocritically subjective, for as long as he'd bothered to hate me.

Because when I caught his gaze, when I let my eyes drift not just onto his, but _into_ his; when I pretended not to know him, or maybe pretended to know him too well, I couldn't tell which and I don't even think it mattered, not then, anyways, since when I looked at him, he _wasn't even listening_, not paying the slightest bit of attention to my impassioned speech, wasn't acknowledging my feelings or my thoughts or my words or my questions, he was just _watching_ me, his lip curling, and I was struck by his skin, so pale and smooth and beautiful, which suddenly didn't fit as the backdrop for his myriad, unpleasant facial expressions, not at all, and I noticed, belatedly, it seemed, that sweat was beading across his forehead, that he was nervous, that he was waiting, anxious, for _something_ to happen, which made me wonder, all at once, if maybe he had been aware that I'd been speaking, that I'd been saying something important, something that wasn't circumspect, or logical, or characteristic of me.

"You're perfect," he blurted out, breaking into my reverie. He cleared his throat. "I hate you because you're too bloody perfect, Granger. Everything you do, you have to do well. Everything you say, you have to be articulate and intelligent and persuasive and make _damn_ sure you get your point across. You're brilliant and brave and sincerely _good_ and even when legitimately awful things happen to you, you just square your shoulders and _carry on_ as if you're fine, just fine, and it's _appalling_ how easy you make that look. _Appalling_," he repeated, then lapsed into silence.

He shook his head while I digested, reflected, dismissed: I must have been doing a better job than I'd thought at hiding my inner turmoil, my inadequacies, my weaknesses and insecurities and fears; I must have masked my heartbreak, my envy, my bitterness, much better than I'd given myself credit for.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

He didn't answer for a long, tense moment, and then he shrugged, drumming his fingers on the desk he was seated at.

"Because you asked," he said, raising one eyebrow.

I wondered, then, if everything was really as simple as that.

If everything really came down to something as base as jealousy.

And if it did, if it was possible to be jealous of other people's dreams.

Because that was what Malfoy was admitting to, essentially: I dreamed I was perfect, I dreamed I was brilliant and brave and good and strong.

But he seemed to be the only one who could vouch for it coming true.

OOO


	8. VII

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: This chapter took awhile to write. Every romance has its breakthrough, even if it's subtle. This chapter is Hermione and Draco's breakthrough. It's pretty much the beginning of _their_ beginning. Hope it meets expectations.

OOO

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

It seemed fitting that it was a cloudy day.

It seemed almost predestined that the weather would be depressingly dismal during this, the most awkward, unwanted, difficult of encounters.

"Hi, Hermione," he began, almost hesitantly, almost apologetic.

Somehow, I knew he wasn't approaching me to say sorry; somehow, I knew that he just needed some assurance that he'd made the right choice, that there weren't going to be any serious grudges, that everything would turn out fine, just fine for him, for me, for all of us.

He'd always been the idealist.

I could have gotten angry, I knew. I could have ranted and raved and screamed and cried and demanded he explain, demanded he give me reasons, list them, even; I could have done all the things I didn't do when he initially dropped me, could have done everything I'd done in private, done in my head, done when no one was looking, when no one was watching me, waiting for it, wanting me to lose control and just _snap_, just go crazy and insane and make him feel awful and terrible, or maybe embarrass him into justifying his mistake, shame him into lying to me.

But as I studied him, an ethereal calm enveloped me, and I was grateful to him, all at once, for not bothering to admit he'd wronged me, drastically, for not bothering to remind me that I deserved more than a half-hearted greeting and a pat on the back for being such a jolly good sport; I was grateful to him for letting me go before I could feel guilty about wanting to let _him_ go, before I could do what I did best and take responsibility, take action, come to terms with this special kind of failure and rectify, rectify, _rectify_.

So I cleared my throat, smiled, and said with some sincerity, "Hey, Ron. How've you been?"

OOO

"What do _you_ look so happy about?" Malfoy sneered rudely later that night, his interest minimal, his rancor overwhelming.

"Nothing, really. Just had a good day," I replied breezily.

"What, did the Weasel take you back?" he snorted, surreptitiously glancing at me from beneath his long, blond lashes.

"Yes, since I'm _just_ pathetic enough to be made happy about that," I answered testily, suddenly wishing I'd never even deigned to respond to his initial inquiry, suddenly wishing I had anyone, anyone at all besides him to confide to.

"Pathetic is probably an understatement," he shot back, smirking.

"Kind of like _evil bastard_ is when pertaining to you."

"While I'd love to give you credit for such a clever little play on words, your…_pathetic_ lack of originality doesn't permit me to," he drawled pointedly.

"Well aren't you quite the conformist," I said, tight-lipped and angry.

"Almost as much as you're a cliché," he returned, eyes flashing.

I halted my retort, momentarily stunned.

"What…what are you talking about?" I finally blurted out.

A bark of laughter greeted my question. And then:

"Come on, Granger. Be serious. You were depressed, then you were all indignant infuriated, then empowered by your ability to overcome your depression, and now you've gone into that martyr stage where you're forgiving everyone and going on with your plans to qualify for a bloody sainthood. You are a _stereotypical reject,_" he spat, shaking his head.

He said other things after that, things meant to torment, torture, retaliate; but I wasn't listening, wasn't absorbing anything except his last words: _stereotypical reject_. I didn't want to think of myself as normal, average, _clichéd_. I had strived for forever to stand out, to be special, different, _better_ than everyone else; and here I was, being called a stereotype.

He wasn't talking anymore, though, just _staring_ at me, and all at once I was reminded of everything awful, everything mean and spiteful and horrible that I'd said to him over the years, every insult I'd hurled at him, every nasty thing I'd said just to get in the last word, just to let him know he couldn't step all over me, couldn't get away with doing and saying the things he did; I was reminded of how _immature_ and _stupid_ those kinds of reactions were, reminded of how very little class and poise I'd exuded when I'd let my temper get the best of me.

Reminded of how very _typical_ the things I'd said had been.

"I…I'm sorry," I choked out, shocked to feel my body wracked by sobs, to feel that my cheeks were wet, to feel so torn apart and exposed and _worthlessly trivial_.

Unlike Ron, he didn't panic. Unlike Ron, he didn't watch me, bewildered. Unlike Ron, he didn't let me run away from him.

He just sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for me to stop. His expression was intent, though, and maybe just a little bit curious.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was in reality only a few minutes, my tears subsided. And I was left with nothing but the knowledge that I'd just lost complete control in front of Malfoy. _Malfoy_.

"So what are you sorry for?" he demanded, no trace of sympathy or kindness in his voice.

I looked away.

I swallowed.

But I didn't answer.

"Well?" he persisted, one eyebrow arched superciliously.

"I'm…I'm sorry I wasn't _better_," I burst out, overloud.

"What the devil are you talking about?" he asked immediately.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter," I said, shutting him out, shutting _myself_ out: the thing was, I had no idea what I was talking about. Words were about to pour forth, and I couldn't with any certainty have predicted what they might be.

"Listen, Granger. I couldn't care less about your little pity party just now. I just want to know _what_, exactly, you apologized to me for."

"Why?" I asked listlessly.

His face registered surprise, but he recovered quickly.

"Because how else will I be able to tell you if I accept it or not?" he replied matter-of-factly.

Once more, I was struck by how black-and-white the world was to him. There was right and wrong, but nothing in between. Everything was simple, everything was contained, and everything made sense. He wasn't the enigma everyone imagined him to be: he was stilted, logical, _easy._

"If I was different, if I was _better_, I wouldn't be a cliché, a stereotype, and then I wouldn't have been the way I am, which, let's face it, isn't that great or perfect or _anything_, and then you wouldn't have hated me so much, and then I wouldn't have been so bitter, so harsh, so mean, so…so…such a _stereotypical_ _reject_," I finished desperately, realizing that nothing nothing _nothing_ I'd said had made the least bit of sense.

He was looking at me oddly, though, his lips pursed as if he was going to say something but had thought better of it, his eyes locked on my face with the _strangest_ measure of intensity.

But then he snapped back to reality, his gaze falling on the clock that announced, in no uncertain terms, that our detention was over for the evening.

"Right," was all he said as he got to his feet.

My disappointment was catatonic; I didn't even try to fathom it.

When he reached the door to the otherwise empty, unused classroom, though, he turned back to me.

"By the way," he said softly, his lips curved into, had it been anyone else, what I would have called the beginnings of a smile, the beginnings of _something_.. "I don't think you're a stereotypical reject, Granger. You're just complicated."

And then he was gone.

OOO


	9. VIII

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

I didn't let myself think about him as I walked back to my room that night. I didn't allow myself to wonder, ponder, _wish_: invariably, I would wish he'd said more, done more; invariably, I would wish that everything, not just him, not just myself, would go back to normal, whatever that was, whatever that had been.

I just wanted everything, not just him, not just myself, to stay the same.

I just wanted everything, not just him, not just myself, to not be so horrendously complicated.

_Complicated_. The word was enigmatic, mysterious, fraught with a million definitions, a million different meanings; pending on perspective and tone, timing and circumstance, it could be an insult, a compliment: it could be absolutely anything, or absolutely nothing, and I would never know.

I tried to remember, then, his expression, his stance, the precise curve of his lips, the exact intensity of his eyes.

His expression? Inscrutable.

His stance? Relaxed.

His lips had curved upwards, seemingly out of their own volition; his eyes had burned into mine, searching, searching, searching.

For what, I couldn't begin to imagine.

Somehow, I didn't think he could either.

Imagine, that is.

OOO

I woke up the next morning with a resolution: I was going to be logical.

I was done dissecting my emotions like there was anything worthwhile to be found in them; I was finished looking for ulterior motives, for hidden meaning in the mundane. I was going to be decisive, detached, coldly calculating: I was going to be everything I hadn't been since I'd found myself under the mistletoe with Ron on Christmas morning.

A good night's sleep had lent the previous evening's confusion some clarity. Clearly, Malfoy had used the word 'complicated' in a misguided effort to redirect my trauma elsewhere; for whatever reason, the phrase 'stereotypical reject' was a catalyst for some long-forgotten inferiority complex. Obviously, my astonishingly strong reaction had taken him by surprise, maybe even alarm, and he'd recognized that the only way to haul me back to sanity was through what would, in comparison, be perceived as a compliment.

Far from a nicety, he'd done nothing except extract himself from an uncomfortable situation. Which was such a classic Malfoy maneuver—it was so believably, predictably characteristic that I actually found comfort in it.

Besides, I wasn't complicated. Not in the least. I was prissy, irritable, and brilliant: what was complicated about that? I'd gone through a messy breakup, nothing more. It was only natural that I harbor some unpleasant feelings for an extended period of time. I was still a _girl_, for heaven's sake. I had _some_ sensitivity left.

Malfoy was just doing what Malfoy did best—preying on my weaknesses. He'd killed two birds with one stone, and he most definitely recognized that. He'd relieved himself of a hysterical female _and_ laced his parting words with so much ambiguity that he _knew_ I'd waste hours wondering exactly what he'd meant. He knew me too well to not think otherwise: I hated not knowing, hated being ignorant of what sounded like such a basic fact, such a pertinent piece of information.

That's all it had been.

_Complicated,_ I scoffed inwardly, smirking as I sat down to eat my breakfast. I glanced upwards just in time to see a plain barn owl swooping towards me. Smiling at the creature, I untied the letter from its outstretched leg and fed it some bacon.

My face froze as I looked at the handwriting.

My world, just that morning set to rights, was sent tumbling off its axis as I read the missive.

Ten minutes later, a piece of parchment would be found on the table, indecipherable, drenched in the aftermath of a spilled cup of orange juice.

No one would know it had been mine.

OOO

_Hermione,_

_You have no idea how much I've missed you, do you?_

_No, I can tell just by the way you're scowling at me right now that you don't. You have no idea I think about you, still, even after all these months. You have no idea that every time I kiss her, speak to her, look at her, I pretend it's you I'm kissing, you I'm talking to, laughing with, gazing at._

_Just like you have no idea that I'm writing to you right now, even as you glare daggers at me, thinking, for God knows what reason, that I can't see you. _

_But I can. See you, that is. I always see you. _

_Why am I doing this, you might ask?_

_Simple._

_You have to know._

_I already played the hero in letting you go. I already did my part in making sure you hated me, making sure I'd broken your heart enough so that it couldn't be mine again. _

_So let me tell you everything you don't know, everything I kept back when I watched you fall apart, when I watched you come out of the girls' room with red eyes, when I watched you collapse the first time you saw me kiss her—you couldn't have known, couldn't have guessed, that I was wishing with all I had that it was you I had in my arms, you whose mouth was pressed against mine._

_So why did I pick her over you? Why did I act like you didn't matter, act like I didn't want you, act like I didn't realize how much it was killing you to see me turn against you?_

_Because I'm not good enough for you. I never have been. _

_And it took something Malfoy said to make me realize it. To make me realize that all I was doing was holding you back. You're talented, and beautiful, and a bloody genius; what could I do for you? Nothing but love you—and even there, I failed._

OOO

He hadn't signed it.

That was the only thing I could focus on as I hugged my knees to my chest and perched on the window seat in the Astronomy Tower.

He hadn't signed it, and that made it all a million times worse. Had he known, in that eerie sixth-sense way he'd always known, that I'd destroy it? Had he guessed that I wouldn't want evidence of his confession any more than he would?

Or had he just not bothered to put his name to it because I knew his handwriting almost better than I knew my own?

"Stop it, Hermione," I berated myself in a heated whisper, uncertain why I was dwelling on something as insignificant as a byline.

But it took half a second's deliberation to realize why I was being stupid: I didn't want to think about all the things he _had_ written, all the things he _had_ put to paper. If I did, something in me would break, something I couldn't fix with common sense, something that couldn't heal with time.

Something that had come dangerously close to shattering once before.

Something I couldn't put a name to, didn't _want_ to put a name to, because if I could, if I did, that would mean I knew what it was, knew what it was that throbbed unpleasantly every time I thought about him, every time I thought about him with her.

"Good God, you're not going to jump are you?" Malfoy, bless him, interrupted my thoughts.

"No." I couldn't formulate a sentence, could barely get out that syllable.

"Right. Wouldn't want to give me the satisfaction," he sighed dramatically, leaning on his elbows on the window sill next to me.

There were a few minutes of companionable silence, which should have struck me as odd, but didn't: I had too much else to think about, too much else to worry over.

"So what did you say to him to make him dump me?" I blurted out, wincing at the flat, unnatural pitch of my voice.

His arms slipped off the ledge as he turned to stare at me, dumbfounded.

"What the devil are you going on about now, Granger?" he demanded, his mouth hanging open even as those superbly gray eyes narrowed.

"It's a fairly straightforward question," I shrugged, belittling the importance of in inquiry: oh, but he couldn't know how curious I was, how furious I was.

"If you're referring to the spineless twit you called your _boyfriend--_" he sneered, "—then I'll have you know I said absolutely nothing. I just pointed out some glaringly obvious facts that he seemed most pitifully unaware of."

He sniffed, even as I seethed. He had the _nerve_ to admit he'd played a rather substantial role in my heartbreak?

"And these _facts_ were _what_, exactly?" I ground out.

He didn't answer me, just maintained his brooding silence as he regarded my stiff posture, my clenched jaw, my flushed face.

"Malfoy," I said harshly, taking a step towards him.

"Say my name," he burst out, color flaming his cheeks even as he defiantly met my bewildered gaze.

"What?" I asked, slack jawed, disoriented.

"Say my name. You've never said it," he repeated, his eyes piercing mine: _swirling, dizzy, breathe breathe breathe, color, motion, dizzy, falling, tumbling, graceless, oh so graceless, breathe, dizzy dizzy dizzy, breathe, please breathe, tripping, falling, over and over, but it's beautiful, swirling, breathe breathe, oh, God, inhale, exhale, land softly, please, breathe breathe _breathe, Hermione.

"Draco. Please."

My soft plea was his undoing, though.

He shuddered, bit his lip, turned away from me and raked a hand through his hair.

"I told him you were a little too complicated for his purposes, that's all," he responded cruelly.

He stalked towards the staircase before I could catch his sleeve.

"Why did you want me to say your name, anyways?" I called out, angry once more.

He stopped in the doorway.

"Because I couldn't stand to hear his anymore. Not from you."

He didn't turn around, but waited a few seconds, as if hoping I'd reply. As if hoping I could think of a witty rejoinder, something clever and wry and devastating that would mark this encounter as just another run-in between two long-standing enemies.

But I didn't reply, and he never turned around, and when I next blinked, he'd left.

OOO


	10. IX

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER NINE**

"I didn't say anything explicit, I'll have you know," Malfoy said upon greeting me that night at our shared detention.

"No? So you just offered a friendly _suggestion_, then?" I asked sweetly.

He looked away from me before deigning to answer.

"I merely solicited my opinion on the matter," he said between gritted teeth.

"And your opinion was _what_, exactly?" I demanded, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

"Why don't you _guess_, Granger?" he taunted, eyes flashing.

"Alright, _Draco_, I _will_," I responded shortly. "My _guess_ goes something like this—you teasing him about dating a _Mudblood_; his predictably infuriated reaction, complete with death threats and a _blush_; you saying something droll and witty, something akin to, oh, I don't know, 'It's not like she'll have you forever _anyways_'; he pales, stutters, pretends not to care as you list all the reasons I'm supposedly _inferior _to the lot of you; you saunter off, knowing you've effectively planted that niggling seed of doubt in his impressionable little brain; he then…then he—then he—he—goes and just—he just _dumps_ me, just like that, and—and—"

I wasn't crying, wasn't sobbing, wasn't even hysterical: I just couldn't get the words out, the words that would place the blame on someone other than me. It was like now that I knew, exactly, who was indirectly responsible for my lost chance at happiness, I didn't want to.

Know, that is.

Because it made the sordid episode that much more difficult to forget.

Oh, I didn't think myself still in _love_ with Ron; I knew, in that dim way that all unwanted truths present themselves, that I was better off without him. I knew that we weren't meant to be together. I felt only the mildest twinge of discomfort whenever he was near, something I attributed to the fact that he _knew_ me, really _knew_ me: he knew the texture of my skin, the flare of my hips, the curve of my waist; he knew exactly how fast the pulse at the base of my neck beat, _exactly_ how fast; he knew the turn of my calves, the feel of my breasts; he knew the precise sound of my breath as it hitched in my throat when his hands, usually so clumsy and rough, wandered and traveled and made something wonderful happen; he knew just what I looked like when that slow swirl of lightning coiled up my spine, when everything and everything and _everything_ was engulfed in _something_ and it didn't matter that I wasn't coherent, that I didn't remember where I was, who I was, because I was with _him_, and the absence of common sense was that much more irrelevant.

I shut my eyes against the onslaught of memories; when I opened them again, Malfoy—no, _Draco_—was staring at me.

"You really don't understand anything, do you?" he asked, his surprise evident.

"Maybe I _would_ if you bothered to _explain_ anything," I retorted huffily.

"I thought you were a bloody genius, Granger. Why can't you figure it out?" he replied, an edge to his words that immediately put me on guard.

_You're talented, and beautiful, and a bloody genius; what could I do for you? Nothing but love you—and even there, I failed._

"I wish you could just tell me it's a coincidence," I pleaded softly, shaking my head.

"Ah, but I've never wanted to cater to your wishes, have I?"

"Just tell me_ why_, then. _Why_, Malfoy. _Why_ you took it upon yourself to ruin the best thing I'd ever had. You've always been spiteful, but, really, are you _evil_, too? Seriously?"

I was trembling with—something. I couldn't comprehend, let alone decipher, the multitude of emotions that were coursing through me; I couldn't comprehend, let alone decipher, _why_ they were there in the first place.

I watched, fascinated, as he clenched his jaw.

I watched, enthralled, as he spun away from me, walked a few feet, and stopped.

I watched, captivated, as he stomped back towards me, closer than he'd been before, just a few seconds before, so much closer.

I was so aware of those precious, lost inches that my head hurt.

"I hated seeing you happy," he whispered, his eyelids slamming shut. "I hated seeing you smiling and laughing _all of the time_, not just when you were with him, but always, always. You were always happy." He shrugged, and then let out a bark of harsh, desperate laughter.

"What right, may I ask, do you have to be so ludicrously happy? What makes you so very different from me? Do you _deserve_ it more than me? Do you? And before you spin that crap about how I'm on the _Dark side_, let me remind you of a rather pertinent fact—I was _born_ to it, Granger. Just as you were born to fight against it. _It isn't fair_. It isn't fair, and I took it upon myself to see that you got a taste, mind you, just a taste, of what it's like to be branded unworthy. You _deserve_ it, after all."

His knuckles were turning white; I hadn't noticed that he'd balled his hands into fists.

"Well that's terribly ironic, isn't it?" I observed, wondering how it was that I hadn't yet collapsed. "The very reason you discriminate is because you were—how did you phrase it? Oh, yes—_born to it_. Takes one to know one, Malfoy?"

"Naturally," he ground out.

And there we were again, at a stalemate.

"You're selfish," I blurted out.

"And you're a hypocrite," he returned, almost instantaneously.

I gaped, astonished into silence.

"I'm going to surmise from your recent obsession with my involvement in the demise of your relationship with the Weasel that he tried to pin the blame on me. That's neither here nor there. Since his…confession—or whatever you want to call it—you've done _nothing_ but think of yourself, how it all pertains to you, how very much pain you're still in. Spare me more graphic descriptions of your emotional duress, if you please.

"You haven't thought, for a moment, of how much it had to have bothered your _one true love_—the Weasel. I'm going to guess that you were to busy victimizing yourself to do anything but castigate him—however inwardly—for being stupid enough to listen to _me_, of all people."

"Yes, well, you're not too far from the mark," I hissed, angry and embarrassed and unconvinced.

"You shouldn't think along those lines though, Granger," he corrected me slowly.

"Oh? And why is that? Pray tell, is it because things are just a touch more…_complicated_ than you're letting on?" I demanded haughtily.

"Of course not. After all, look at how well you pay attention when I talk. Dare I say that you actually _listen_ to me? Of all people?"

Silence followed his pronouncement.

An odd, fluttery feeling was starting somewhere south of my navel, a feeling that was not altogether pleasant; abruptly, the weight of his words sunk into me, and I was mortified.

Petrified, even.

"What's wrong, Granger?" he needled. "Feeling selfish again?"

I glanced up to study his bored, eager expression.

I felt as if time had ceased to exist as I turned away and trudged to the door.

Nothing was happening, but everything was changing: I felt it in the air, the air that was suddenly thick with tension, with warning, with promise.

"By the way," I called out when I reached the doorway, not daring to face him.

"Yes, Granger?" he intoned with relative indifference.

I tucked my hair behind my ears: my hands seemed pale, ethereal, detached.

"You're right, Draco."

And then I started to run.

OOO


	11. X

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TEN**

I ran so far and so fast that everything, including time, ceased to be real: everything was a blur, a deliciously fatalistic blur. I ignored the telltale signs of exhaustion—my lungs were on fire, my muscles were burning, and my entire body seemed swollen with suppressed heat.

None of that mattered, though: I was still abominably cold.

I felt frozen, numb; I felt inadequate, impotent, as if no matter how hard I sprinted I could never escape. Which made a desperate, sick sort of sense, since, really, I was trying to get away from myself, from all my prissy, irritating inhibitions, all my supercilious, ostentatious ideals. And that was just impossible, wasn't it?

But maybe that wasn't what I was trying to do. Maybe I was running from something different altogether. Maybe I was grasping at what I considered to be my last chance, my last resort—if I pushed just a little bit harder, if I was just a little bit faster, I could elude him and his arrestingly accurate accusations. I could never have to come to terms with the self-deprecating knowledge that Malfoy—_Malfoy_, of all people—had just taught me a lesson.

Malfoy—_Malfoy_, of all people—had gone and pointed out my hypocrisy, my own agonizingly obvious character flaws, my moral failings, even; and he'd done it so easily, as if he'd just been biding his time, waiting until I was at my most pretentious before letting me in on the dirty little secret everyone but me was in on: I wasn't perfect, wasn't even close to perfect, and had wasted so much time striving to be, so much time trying to be.

I blinked back tears at the thought, knowing knowing _knowing_ that I couldn't even blame Malfoy for this. What, when all he'd done was state a fact? When all he'd done was tell the truth?

Fate was cruel, I decided then. Allowing him to strike the ultimate blow like that—allowing him to objective, for once, but still be so, so hurtful.

I'd reached an inevitable conclusion by the time I realized that overexertion wouldn't solve my problems: There was nothing complicated about honesty, after all.

OOO

"Granger. Feels like it's been days, doesn't it?" he called to me the next morning, his voice carrying through the otherwise empty hall.

"Miss me, Malfoy?" I asked caustically, not meeting his probing gray gaze: I was afraid, so afraid, that if I did, he could see how haunted, hunted, _humble_ I was.

"Yes, that's _exactly_ it," he returned enthusiastically, smirking.

"So you've taken to lying before you've even had your breakfast, then?" I inquired politely, gritting my teeth.

"How do you know I'm lying?" he replied, the harsh, tactless levity that was usually between us all but gone; it had been replaced, I noticed, by something deeper, less trivial, more intense.

Something more derogatory, something more cautious.

Something far more permanent.

"Your lips are moving, aren't they?" I countered, finally tossing a fleeting, distasteful glare in his direction.

He flinched.

"Ah, of course. How unlucky for you that, on occasion, I can be so brutally candid," he commented dryly, leaning sideways against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest.

I realized, with no small measure of irritation, with no small measure of panic, that I had no ready retort; so instead of speaking, I turned to look out the window at the end of the hall.

The bleak, desolate skyline promised rain.

"No? Nothing? Damn, but you've been disappointing lately," he murmured, shaking his head.

"Disappointing?" I repeated, knowing what he would say but needing to hear it from him, needing to hear him reaffirm all my suspicions, all my unpleasant realities.

"Yes! You've been crying and interrogating and getting all defensive and it's really just a pity, since you used to be _such_ fun," he explained regretfully.

"I had no idea you were so appreciative of my…singular personality," I intoned, my throat dry, my eyes dry, my feelings: dry.

"I still have some secrets left, Granger. Don't worry."

And then he smiled, sort of, as if to reassure me that yes, he was still as enigmatic, as mysterious, as inscrutable as I'd never thought him to be; that yes, he was still cold and unfeeling and brittle, so brittle, as if one well-timed, well-executed insult could break him, shatter him into a million tiny little pieces, fragments, really, except, no no _no_ that wasn't him who was fragile, was it, at least I didn't remember it being him, but maybe I was just confused, maybe it really was him who was so delicate, so frail, maybe he was more complex than I'd ever given him credit for, or maybe I was wrong, all wrong, and things weren't anything like I'd imagined, they were just—complicated?

"I never worry about _you_," I heard myself say as if from a great distance.

"Now who's the liar?" he immediately rejoined.

"What are you even _talking_ about?" I demanded, exasperated.

"I wonder when you'll stop feigning indifference," he pondered whimsically, tapping his fingers against his forearms.

"Oddly enough, I'm not feigning _anything_."

"No, you're not the type, are you?"

"Well I wasn't sorted into Slytherin, now was I?"

"No, thank God," came a new voice, a familiar voice—_Ron's_ voice—from behind us. Malfoy and I both glanced backwards, him with surprise, me with vindication.

"Oh. Hello, Ron," I said uneasily, uncertain why I was suddenly nervous.

"Hey, Hermione. Is he bothering you again?" Ron didn't mice words.

"I think she can handle me just fine without your clumsy attempts at chivalry, Weasley," Malfoy drawled. "And shouldn't you, oh, I don't know, be somewhere with your _girlfriend?_"

And then it happened.

Ron, with a strangled, incomprehensible shout, launched himself at Malfoy, tumbling them both to the ground, their legs entwined and kicking and their fists colliding with everything, everything, _everything:_ air and faces and bodies and stone. It was an unintelligible melee of adolescent rage, adolescent immaturity; I watched, fascinated and distressed, as Ron's punches repeatedly made contact with Malfoy's increasingly bloodied face.

"Stop it, both of you!" I yelled, belatedly recognizing that I should do _something_ to stop them, _something_ to save _him_. I saw Ron pause, saw my opening, and lunged forward to grab Malfoy's sleeve. I yanked him to my side, away from Ron, but Ron was already walking away, and it was then that I heard another voice—Lavender's—calling his name from the other end of the hallway, wondering where he was, what he was doing, who he was talking to, and since it wouldn't be prudent to be caught within a five mile radius of _me_, he was deserting me, leaving me with Malfoy, leaving me to clean up _his_ mess.

Some things, I reflected, would probably never change.

"Get _away_ from me, Granger," Malfoy snarled at me, shoving at my arm and stumbling backwards. "I don't _need_ your help."

I cringed at his violent tone, taking a step of my own away from him.

"You're welcome, Malfoy," I said firmly, holding my head up and meeting his gaze with a quiet sort of dignity.

He studied me, my posture, my features, my demeanor: and then, just when I began to grow weary of it, horror slowly dawned on his pale, crimson-smattered face. All at once, he looked stricken, sick with himself.

And then he walked away.

OOO


	12. XI

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: You all may hate this chapter, simply because it's so convoluted, but it's my absolute favorite. Possibly of any of the stories I've written on this site. It's…evocative. It also marks the beginning of the end for Hermione. How perfectly lovely.

OOO

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

It was midnight and I was alone.

The air was crisp, cool, and clean: it smelled so pure, so fresh, as if the rain that had fallen so steadily throughout the day could dispel all my regrets, all my mistakes, all my sins. And as I tucked my feet underneath my body, staring out at the glassy surface of lake, everything everything _everything_ came back to me, all at once, all of it, _all_ of it.

There I was, crying myself to sleep at eleven years old, wishing for a friend, a confidante, someone besides myself to wile away a Sunday afternoon with; there was Malfoy, mocking and cruel and oh, so very, very spiteful, saying my name with a little derision and a whole lot of hatred; there was Viktor Krum, looking into my eyes and telling me he liked me for all the reasons girls like me don't want to be liked—oh, Hermione, but you have such _personality_.

There was Ron, lips red and puffy, emerging from that unused classroom, a giggling Lavender clutching his hand even as he wiped his mouth with it; there was Ron, staring at me with wonderment, or was it surprise, or was it excitement, I couldn't even remember, but it was _something_, and he was coming towards me, the mistletoe above us brushing the top of his head even as it descended, our breath swirling together with so much heat, so very much heat; there was Malfoy, smirking, grinning, laughing, at us, at Ron, at me, at _everything_; there was Ron turning purple with rage, his arm tightening at my waist as Malfoy's rich, superfluous chuckle permeated my sense of romance, tainting it, it seemed.

There was Ron, looking uncomfortable, pained, apologetic, even as he broke my heart, even as he broke my spirit, even as he normalized our entire relationship with those words that I would never forget, never be able to repress—_it's not you, really, it's me_; there was Malfoy, brimming with insincerity, begging me not to cry anymore, facilitating my collapse, my dreadful, agonizing collapse; there was Malfoy, baiting me, baiting me, standing in front of a window, until it started to rain; there was Malfoy, needling and taunting and provoking me, right up until I snapped, right up until I let go of that tiny piece of heartbreak and turned it into senseless, disparaging anger.

There was Malfoy, telling me I was perfect, answering all my questions _just because I asked_, and wasn't that just the clincher for my insanity, all that simplicity, all that affirmation; there was Malfoy, calling me average, a stereotype, even, and then taking it all back, _complicating_ things with his honesty; there was Malfoy, looking at me, looking through me, understanding the most basic of all my weaknesses—I was selfish, so selfish, so imperfect, but it didn't signify, not to him, or was I just realizing the subtext of his words now, had he not really said that, oh God oh God oh God.

Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy: no, Draco.

Draco.

_Draco_.

He had so much power over me, always had, and it had never occurred to me to wonder _why_ someone I expended so much energy reminding myself I hated, so much precious energy, could have such lasting, profound effects on me.

But then I heard footsteps on the wet, springy grass behind me, breaking into my reverie, my memories, causing me to look over my shoulder and gasp at who had materialized, as if by magic.

"What are _you_ doing here?" I blurted out, immediately coloring.

He just shrugged, continuing to walk towards me until he reached my side and plopped onto the ground.

It didn't seem to bother him that our thighs were touching: I felt every square millimeter of bodily contact so strongly, so intensely, that my _heart_ felt as if it was spiraling out of control, dancing, dizzy, spinning and spinning and _spinning_.

"Why are _you_ here?" he finally asked me, turning to look me in the eye, only to discover that our faces were close, too close, and I was so so so aware that his lips looked incredibly soft, that his cheeks looked scratchy, surely he needed to shave, but why was I even _thinking_ about that, and why was I noticing, and why did I want, so very much, to reach out and touch him and feel that roughness for myself, and _why_ couldn't he just be straightforward again?

"Why are you making it so hard?" I whispered passionately, my eyes trained on his mouth, which was opening to reply, his tongue rolling forward to form a word, his lips pursed to form a question.

"What are you talking about?"

But he knew, I could tell he knew, just by the way his own gaze dropped to my lips, my mouth, just by the way his eyes swept across my skin, my face, my hair.

"Why are you making it so hard to _hate_ you?" I burst out, my voice strangled.

And that was when I started to laugh, desperately, because I had all but admitted that I _didn't _hate him, not anymore, which made no sense at all, since he'd been so horrible, so awful, so petty and mean to me for so long now, and turned me into this defensive, pathetic person that I couldn't even recognize, let alone accept, and what did it say about me that I couldn't even despise him for all that?

"Hermione." Just my name, just once, so quiet, so unreal, so unfamiliar coming from him.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just like saying your name," he responded softly, a half-smile decorating his face. "It's…melodic."

Before I could stop myself, I reached forward and trailed a finger down his jaw, marveling at how warm he was, at how much I wanted to push just a little more, until our lips melded and our breath mingled and I could feel him, all of him, against me, on me, in me, everywhere, everywhere.

I jerked backwards.

"I just want everything to go back to normal," I pleaded, knowing even as I said it that nothing would ever be normal again, nothing would ever be the same, and wasn't that just the most terrifying thought I'd ever had?

But it was too late to take it back, because his eyes had already darkened, and he was taking back the distance between us with a vengeance, his hands moving to my shoulders, his head angled as it descended to mine, and then he was kissing me, kissing me, _kissing_ me, and it was so perfect, so delicious, so astonishingly _amazing_ that the only thing I could do was kiss him back, arching into his embrace even as he pulled me backwards, on top of him, our hips grinding together as our lips fit together like puzzle pieces, over and over, our lungs on fire from lack of oxygen, but what did that even _matter_, really, when there was so much going on in other parts of my body that if I'd expired on the spot I don't think I would have noticed, not really, especially when his hands were wandering, moving, whisper-soft against my skin, right until I felt his fingers pull the drawstring on my pajama bottoms.

And then I'd shoved myself off of him, my breath coming in short, awkward gasps, his own no better.

"Is that normal enough for you?" he inquired harshly, the sting of my rejection like a heady perfume in the night air.

I couldn't even think, let alone speak in coherent sentences, and didn't respond.

He snorted, disgusted: with himself or with me, I didn't know.

"Don't touch me again, Granger. As it is, I'm going to have to spend the next month in the shower to get clean," he spat out, turning on his heel before he could see my reaction.

Which was odd, since he usually always liked to stay and savor his victories. His triumphs. His conquests.

But I couldn't think of any of that just then.

It had started to rain, and the only thing I could think to do was run for cover, for shelter, for protection.

From the storm, of course.

Of course.

OOO


	13. XII

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

I spent the next twelve hours hating myself—I was lost in a confusing tumble of disappointment and anger, indifference and regret.

I remembered how the moon hadn't been quite full, how the clouds, the very ones that promised rain, had floated whimsically over it, casting shadows on the damp grass, casting shadows on the surface of the lake, sometimes calm, sometimes rippled by that chilly, bitter breeze that cut through clothing and turned my blood to ice. I remembered how I'd sat at the edge of the water, waiting for clarity, for _something_, only to be overwhelmed by memories that made no sense, served no purpose except to illustrate my _stupidity_, my abject and abnormal stupidity. I remembered being surprised, inexplicably so, by his sudden appearance, his eyes taking in my pajamas, the undone top buttons, my loose hair falling down my back, over my shoulders; I remembered watching his hands, thinking that they were bigger than I would have expected, the fingers long and tapered, the fingernails clipped and short and immaculate.

I remembered how good he'd tasted, how right he'd felt, how very much I'd wanted to forget myself, _abandon_ myself, just get lost in his arms, with his tongue delving deeper, playful and erotic and dangerously teasing, with his hands touching me everywhere, anywhere, with something rather like reverence, brushing against my skin and caressing, memorizing, every last contour, every last nuance, with his weight, so thrilling, so _much_, pushing my back against the grass, our bodies kissing the ground—passionately, intrepidly, beautifully.

But most of all, I remembered, distinctly, wishing he'd never stop, wishing I could let his hands, his lips, finish what they'd started; I remembered wanting more more _more_, God, but I'd wanted more, except when he'd shifted to reach for my pajama bottoms he'd let in some of that freezing air, effectively dousing that ridiculous, overrated—_feeling­­_, yes, that's what it was, a chemical reaction, a hormonal imbalance, a catalyst to crave someone else's touch.

Except it hadn't gone away, not even after I'd fallen asleep, exhausted and disoriented.

I'd woken up and wanted him even more.

OOO

"Well _you_ look tired, Granger," he observed nonchalantly, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the bookshelf next to my carrel at the library.

"I wonder why that would be," I mused icily, embarrassed by his mere presence; I was sure, so sure, that he knew every last one of my inappropriate thoughts, every last one of my dreams.

"Oh, I think you do. Wonder, that is," he replied pointedly, smirking.

"About what? Nothing out of the ordinary happened to _me_ last night," I bit out, fighting the urge to scream.

"Didn't it?" he murmured, vacating the bookshelf and bending down so that his elbows rested on my desk. His eyes, which had been shuttered by distance and necessity, bore into mine, glittering with some unidentifiable emotion.

"N-no," I stammered, "it didn't."

And then I glanced away, but not fast enough, because he caught my chin with his hand, wrenching my head back to face him.

"Are you sure about that?" he demanded silkily.

And then my reticence, so out of character and strange, dissipated, and I was oddly, unbearably, unpleasantly _furious_.

"Don't _touch_ me," I hissed, pushing my palm against his chest, _hard_, watching with some morbid satisfaction as he stumbled backwards, his cheeks flaming.

"You certainly didn't say that last _night_," he remarked heatedly.

"I wasn't thinking clearly, I assure you," I returned coldly.

"Right, since logic is _really_ important when making a decision like _that_," he said sarcastically, a lock of bright blond hair falling across his forehead: I was mesmerized by those silky strands, glinting in the afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows; they looked soft, so soft.

"And why shouldn't it be, if only to prevent someone from making the mistake of a lifetime?" I ground out, irritated with him, with myself, with the conversation.

His lips grew thin as he pressed them together.

"Since it's worked so well for you? Oh, _that's_ right, your boyfriend _dumped_ you!" he shouted with mock sympathy. I took a thoughtless step forward, rage spurring me on where common sense could not.

"I'm _sorry_, but I was under the impression my _boyfriend_ had dumped me because you'd decided to finally grow into your _sadism_!" I yelled, incensed.

"Funny, I'd thought I was doing you a _favor_, convincing someone with more _freckles_ than _brain cells_ to dump you!" he retorted menacingly.

"Oh, that's _rich_ coming from_ you_. Want me to return the favor and push you out the bloody window?" I asked threateningly, narrowing my eyes.

"Only if I can take you with me, Granger. I should do right by the Weasel, anyways, put him out of his misery by getting rid of _you_," he spat sardonically.

"Who _knew_ you'd want to die playing the hero?"

"One would think it would be whoever knew that _you'd_ enjoy kissing _me_."

"Oh! And here I thought I'd been the one to _push you away_," I seethed, watching with interest as he gritted his teeth.

"Not before you'd made your satisfaction _abundantly--_"

"Oh, please, since you're just _such_ a--"

"I really wish you hadn't interrupted me. I was just getting to the _good_ part, you know, the really good descriptions of _exactly_ what you felt like when I--" he broke off.

"When you _what_, Malfoy? Hmm? I'm _breathless_ with anticipation," I goaded him, needing to hear him say everything he'd done the night before, needing to hear him condone it, admit it.

He stared at me, though, an inscrutable expression on his pale, pale face.

"Strange, but I can't seem to remember," he said thoughtfully.

"Denial's unhealthy," I pointed out scathingly.

"No, no, it's not denial. I just can't be bothered to remember things so…_unremarkable_," he shrugged, looking away.

I bit my lip.

"Not even when memories are the only thing you'll ever get?" I countered.

He swallowed.

"The only reason people hold onto memories so tight, Granger, is because _memories_ are the only things that don't change when everything else does. Memories are forever. And forever," he finished cruelly, "doesn't exist. You can attest to that."

I flinched.

"I can't imagine that there's anything else to say," I finally replied, my voice brittle, my eyes unblinking.

And then, with poise I hadn't known I'd possessed, I packed up my books and walked sedately out of the library.

I only looked back once.

OOO


	14. XIII

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: And now I'm going to stun you all and write a _happy_ chapter. Short, but yes, happy. Novel concept, right? At least in this fic.

**_Tifereth Wolfe:_** Haha, seriously? Your reviews make me laugh. They're pretty much the best. Ever. Thanks.

OOO

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

I was afraid to fall asleep that night. It was a strange thought--being more scared of my subconscious than I was of reality. But, really, that didn't make it any less true: the fact remained that I spent the better part of three hours rolling over and over and over, unwilling to get comfortable, unwilling to succumb to blessed, blissful slumber.

And so I slipped out of my dormitory and went to the lake.

Again.

I took all the same steps I'd taken the previous night, winding my way through medieval corridors, my feet shuffling against the same cold flagstones, my eyes growing accustomed to the same eerie, blank darkness.

But I was outside, finally, and rushing towards the lake, my hair streaming out behind me and laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep, deep inside me, and it was then that I realized I was running, sprinting, really, towards absolutely nothing, that the shores of the lake were as deserted as the hallways in the castle, but I'd wanted to be alone, hadn't I, so I had no reason to be disappointed, except I was, disappointed that is, and that made no sense at all, none whatsoever.

And then I heard footsteps and I knew, intuitively, that something exceptional was about to happen.

It wasn't a shout that reverberated inside my body until I reeled with shock, with excitement. No, it was more a change in the air, the atmosphere: it was crackling with electricity, alive, suddenly, moving and buzzing and vibrating and wreaking all sorts of havoc, the kind that can't be reversed, can't be helped.

The kind I've never wanted to reverse, never wanted to help.

"Back for more?" I called back to him, shivering with anticipation.

He started at the sound of my voice, his head jerking back.

"More _what_? Verbal abuse?" he sneered sardonically, his arms crossed over his chest—he was only a few feet away, the space between us relatively small, but I was sentient of every last inch, every last millimeter.

"If that's what you call it," I shrugged noncommittally: oh, but he couldn't know that adrenaline was coursing like water through my body, fluid and easy and suddenly very, very precious.

He snorted, and then asked, his tone curious, "Why do you even come down here, Granger?"

"Because it's quite a bit better than the alternative," I replied wryly.

"And the alternative…?" he persisted, his gaze intent.

I sighed.

"The alternative would be to lie awake, for hours, watching all my nice, normal roommates sleep, wondering how they do it, how they're so uncomplicated, wondering _why_ I think about things so much that my brain refuses to shut off. Not exactly healthy, is it?"

He shook his head: I took a step forward.

"What do you think about?"

His soft inquiry rang in my ears even as I floundered for a reply.

"I don't know," I lied, looking away. "Everything, I suppose."

"No." He said it with certainty, with a wealth of meaning. "What really keeps you awake, Granger? What do you really think about?"

"I…" I trailed off, blinking, my heart hammering inside my chest, my palms sweaty.

I took another step forward.

"I think about how strange it is that I'm afraid to go to sleep," I answered. "I think about how I'm probably the only person in the world who's terrified of her dreams, because that's exactly it, you know? I don't want to dream because I know that if I let myself, I'll dream things that don't make sense, that I don't really want to happen."

I was rambling, I knew, but he was staring at me, into me, as if he understood what I was saying, as if he knew where I was coming from and where I wanted to be and where I was going.

I took another step in his direction: we were close, so close, but it wasn't enough, not nearly enough.

"What do you dream about?" he asked: my eyes were on his lips, cherry red against that milk-white, perfect skin.

"What do you think?" I returned, laughing tremulously.

"Tell me," he implored.

"You," I confessed. "I dream about you."

And then he cupped my face in his hands and leaned forward, and my eyelids dropped of their own volition, and I was waiting for the inevitable, waiting for it, but then my eyes snapped open, and I noticed that he had freckles in his eyes, spots of black and flecks of gold lost in the gray.

"Why did you kiss me last night?" I blurted out.

He didn't move.

"Was it because you wanted to or because you could?" I persisted.

He didn't reply, but his gaze was locked on my mouth.

"Why did you even come down here?" I whispered.

His eyes flew to mine.

"I came down here," he said softly, deliberately, intensely, "because I thought…no, I _hoped_ that you might come, too."

And then he smiled, really smiled, and I almost laughed at how fast my pulse raced, how sweet his lips tasted, how gentle his roving hands were as they unbuttoned my pajamas; I almost laughed at this strange, bouncy feeling that was running through my body, glowing and fizzing and just this bright burst of senseless, unprecedented effervescence, almost, and when he laid me down on his jacket on the grass, and we were skin to skin to skin to skin, the sensation just multiplied, it seemed so infinite, and when he kissed a line of pure radiance down the column of my throat, my only thought was that this was perfection, truly, since he'd said the exact right thing, and was doing all the right things just then, his fingertips dripping ecstasy as they caressed my thighs, my stomach, my hips.

And then it was over, shattered, lost in the poetry of our bodies melded too close, so close, and he pressed his lips against my temple, his breathing ragged, his arms locked around my shoulders.

"That was perfect," I murmured, wishing there were adequate words for everything I was thinking, everything I was feeling.

"No," he whispered into my ear, "No. It was better than perfect."

I could finally sleep.

OOO


	15. XIV

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Not surprisingly, this entire chapter is devoted to Hermione reflecting on her (impetuous?) actions of the previous chapter/night. Due to this, it's relatively short. I tried to incorporate her sensible side while at the same time maintain some _semblance_ of the highly-strung emotions I've rendered her capable of in this story. Since I suck at being objective in regards to my own writing, I can't tell you if I succeeded. Oh, well.

OOO

**_A Broken Leg:_** Sweet. I hope you wouldn't mind if I took you up on that for an entirely selfish reason. Like stopping my darling, dear, traditionalist-cum-socialite-cum-sociopath mother from calling me twice daily to remind me that my degree from Harvard can wait, but marriage can't?

**_Tifereth Wolfe:_** You are officially my favorite irony-rich, sarcasm-repellant, highly literate pseudo-masochist of all time. Really, the fact that you seem to harbor some non-transient affection for my writing just adds to your charm.

OOO

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

It was strange to wake up to a single regret; just the one. Disconcerting, really. After all, for so long I'd been second-guessing every word I'd spoken, every decision I'd made. It was almost a relief to glance at the warm body blanketing my own and think—_my God. My God, Hermione, one mistake and look how far you've fallen._

Except I didn't _feel_ it. Like I'd fallen. I felt liberated and rebellious and different, deliciously so, as if in the amount of time it had taken him to relieve me of my clothes, my inhibitions, I'd become a different person, a braver person.

But then I rolled over and reality bore down on me in the form of a predawn mist, moisture settling on my hair, clinging to my eyelashes, whispering across my skin, waking me up—

And I was horrified.

Because I'd been swimming through my sleepy, hazy preclusions up until the moment I'd recognized his bright blond hair; because I'd been slowly, lazily, perusing my thoughts, my feelings, my self-worth, cognizant only of the fact that I'd done _something_ wrong, something bad, but hadn't realized the magnitude of it, oh no, hadn't forced myself to wake up, wake up and take in that pale, beautiful skin, those precise, even features, the eyes that were shut but would surely open up and be as gray and fathomless and angry as ever.

Except they hadn't been angry the previous night. I was sure of that. They'd been hesitant, yes, and maybe a little bit confused, but they'd burned into my own with understanding and compassion and _need_, as if his very existence depended upon whether or not I fell into his embrace: and it had been so long since I'd felt needed, so long since someone had looked at me without a veil of pity, or amusement, or scorn.

So very, very long.

But there was nothing that could justify my behavior. I knew that, I accepted that; I couldn't make excuses for something that couldn't ever be excused. I could never take back what I'd done, what I'd let him do, what had transpired on an otherwise nondescript patch of emerald green grass, close enough to the lake to be shrouded in fog, far enough from the castle to be considered illicit.

We fit, was the thing. Our legs were entwined on his jacket, our ankles together, his knee resting against my outer thigh; his body was cradling my own, though, his arms wrapped around my waist, his hands lying dormant on my stomach. He was so much bigger than me—my bare shoulders were pressed against the top of his rib cage, each of his deep, even breaths bringing us closer as his lungs expanded, then retracted.

I remembered, vividly, what it had felt like to be pressed against him when his breathing wasn't so predictable, when he'd gasped for air just as often as I'd grasped for heaven: I didn't think I'd ever forget.

Which was why I forced myself to slide out of his grasp, collect my clothes, and walk back to the castle.

This time, I didn't look back.

OOO

When I got back to my dormitory, I headed straight for the bathroom. I stripped, tossing my pajamas into the corner: they smelled like him and I wanted them off, away. I didn't need to be contaminated by potent, pungent memories.

But then I was naked, and the door was locked, and the shower was running, and I stood frozen in front of the mirror, marveling at how nothing had changed, how no one—_no one_—would be able to tell anything exciting had happened to me, how no one—_no one_—would even guess that I'd done something unexpected, something daring, something stupid and selfish and scandalous.

My hair was still long and curly and boringly brown; my lips were still full and pink, perpetually turned down at the corners; my skin was still soft, my eyebrows still arched, my nose still sprinkled with freckles no one could see unless they were close enough to touch, close enough to kiss; I was still skinny, my body angular in all the wrong places, my hips barely flaring out before they hit the tops of my thighs.

I jumped into the shower before I could finish my visual perusal, letting the steaming hot water penetrate my every last pore as my thoughts drifted and wandered and settled.

For weeks and weeks I'd looked at my reflection with indifference: I hadn't spared a thought for my lifeless eyes, my dispassionate gaze. I'd just run a brush through my hair, splashed some water on my face, and been done with it.

But something momentous had happened the night before. Something had fluttered to life inside of me, reminding me of everything I'd vowed to forget—hands and lips and silky smooth skin and some kind of blessed, wonderful delirium that lasted only for a second, less than a second, but made everything, every sacrifice, every bead of sweat, every ounce of exertion, worthwhile, meaningful, purposeful; that instant where everything comes together, in unison, in symmetry, where I was connected, in the most sensuous form of the word, to someone else. And then it would hold, miraculously, even as I waited for it to break apart, fall apart, blow up into a million, a billion, a trillion little pieces, slices of paradise, all of them.

I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw, red, my nerves tingling and my feet stuck together, over the drain, blocking the steady stream of water cascading down my body; I couldn't stop watching white swirls of soap careen through the shallow puddles on the tile, couldn't tear my eyes from the mounting suds. It was odd that something so easily blockaded, so thoughtlessly stopped, could be held accountable and responsible for keeping me clean. It was odd that no matter how much of it I used, I didn't feel it working.

But I knew that even after I'd stepped out of the steam, wiped down the mirror, stared at my wet hair, my damp skin; I knew that even after I'd toweled off, put on fresh clothes, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair back: I wouldn't feel clean.

Because all I'd have to do was close my eyes and remember.

I didn't think I'd ever forget.

OOO


	16. XV

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I spent a lot of time perfecting this chapter. Much more than I usually spend. On anything. I'm very lazy, you see, and am rarely able to motivate myself to do anything I don't want to. But something about this chapter just called for everything to be just right, for every word to count. So I tried. Really tried. And I'm not quite sure what I ended up with, to be honest. I think I like it because it helps a lot of things that preceded it make more sense, have more meaning.

OOO

**_A Broken Leg:_** You win. Med student? Hahaha. There's really no getting out of it for you now, you know. My mother might almost be as ecstatic as she was when I went to prom with the captain of the football, basketball, _and_ baseball teams. (Yes, fall, winter, and spring were covered, so there were plenty of chances to redeem myself after I quit cheerleading.) The fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, a closet homosexual apparently doesn't signify. Still. Besides that, though. I'm intrigued by the thought of someone playing doctor. On me. Hmm. Thank God I'm not a lesbian, right?

**_Tifereth-Wolfe:_** You're quite funny.

OOO

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

"And here I thought you were avoiding me." His voice was sardonic, grating; his tone was casual. I glanced up from my homework, praying my blush wouldn't surface, that my hands wouldn't tremble.

"Why would I want to avoid you? Besides the obvious reasons," I added thoughtfully, feigning ignorance, indifference. Inwardly, I was a maelstrom of confusion and apprehension and fear—oh, but there was so much of it, so much so that my stomach was rolling, my palms were sweaty with it.

"The obvious reasons clearly not being as _obvious_ to those of us with lesser intellects," he sneered, an unfamiliar emotion marring his features.

"Surely you're not _unaware_ of how completely unpleasant you are to be around?" I responded, incredulous.

"An interesting adjective," he mused, circling my table until he came to a halt next to my elbow. "Tell me, _Hermione_, are you the type that finds any and all acts of intimacy…_unpleasant_?"

And then his hand closed around my jaw and he was jerking my face up, his expression so serious, so unreadable, I had to catch my breath.

"Let me _go_," I swallowed, the slight movement in my throat causing his wrist to chafe against it. Abruptly, he did just as I asked.

"Gladly," he snapped: I flinched.

"I don't see why you feel the need to _talk_ about it," I hissed.

"You didn't really think I'd let you get away with it? Just walking—no, excuse me—_running_ away like that?" he responded, sounding amused.

"No, but I was _hoping_ you'd do what I've been wanting you to do for years and _leave me alone_," I answered tightly.

"No such luck," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Pity, that," I mumbled.

"Any chance you'll be back at the lake tonight?" he inquired casually, crossing his arms over his chest and arching a single, suggestive brow.

"No," I ground out, masking my humiliation. "I'll be in bed, actually."

"Alone?" he pressed, leering.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning, Malfoy," I said icily, setting my jaw: except I did, I did understand, and nothing could have shamed me more.

"I'm just assuming I'm not the only one who wants to make your dreams come true," he elucidated cruelly, shrugging.

"Which would be natural," I shot back, "if you'd even come _close _to doing that."

"Oh, I came close. Closer than the Weasel, I'll bet," he snorted. He suddenly stood up straight, his hands balled into fists.

"That is most certainly none of your business," I informed him coldly.

"Well it's _definitely_ something no one sane would ever want to contemplate. I can't stand the sight of you as it is—there's no need to torture myself any further," he shuddered.

"So last night was experimental masochism for you, then?" I burst out, furious, embarrassed.

"Who's talking about it now?" he remarked, smirking triumphantly.

"Is this a _game_?" I asked in disbelief.

"If it was, you wouldn't be winning, now would you?"

"No," I replied bluntly, "because you'd be cheating." I got to my feet, my anger keeping me steady.

"I have news for you, Granger: I wouldn't have to cheat to beat you at this."

"At _what_, Malfoy?" I demanded.

He paused, looking for all the world as if my question had surprised him.

"It's the same thing we've been doing for years, isn't it?"

"I'm fairly sure I haven't been sneaking off in the middle of the night to meet you for _years_," I pointed out.

"That isn't what I meant," he said impatiently. "I meant…well, we've always been competing, haven't we? Who can get the last word. Who can be cleverer, quicker, meaner. It's always been about finding each others' weaknesses, exploiting them. We're just doing it in a different way. Aren't we?"

And that was when I finally finally _finally_ understood him, his actions, everything he'd been doing and saying and everything I'd believed and thought and felt—none of it, none of it had been real.

"So let me get this straight," I managed to say, rage rendering me sort of speechless, sort of incoherent. "You took advantage of my emotional vulnerability to…to _humiliate_ me?"

"It wasn't like you weren't trying to do the same thing," he said defensively.

"Is that why you said it, then?" I demanded, staring at him with dawning comprehension, dawning horror.

"Said what?" he asked blankly, irritated.

"I said it was perfect. And then you…you said that no, no it was better than perfect. Except that's not possible, everyone knows that. So you said it because you knew it couldn't be true. But it sounded good, so good, and that was right where its appeal was, wasn't it?"

And then I laughed—because, really, what else could I do?

He was walking away from me, though, slowly, very slowly; or maybe he was trudging, which was such a funny, apt word when you thought about it, so phonetically descriptive, so insightful: to trudge was to be defeated, dejected, which was exactly what he wasn't, or shouldn't be, since he'd won, finally, he'd beat me for good.

Except then he was coming back, striding towards me purposefully, angrily.

"Do you know what it's like to not care about anyone, Granger? To wake up every morning and remember that as soon as you slip up, make a mistake, everyone who loves you…just _won't_ anymore?"

He was doing it again, looking at me with such an astonishing ferocity that I couldn't have moved if I had wanted to: my heartbeat skipped, stuttered, stumbled.

"No, I don't know what it's like," I replied distantly. "I don't expect I ever will."

And then I snapped my mouth shut, glaring at the floor, except all at once I couldn't stay quiet, couldn't hold it back, and my blood was rushing rushing rushing through every last artery I possessed, burning its way through my body as my adrenaline spiked. And then I was speaking:

"Why should anyone, anyone at _all_ love someone like you, Malfoy? You're hateful and spiteful and…and no one can even _trust_ you! You're callous and superficial and condescending and you _lie_, you lie so much, no one could ever believe anything you said. Why should anyone love _that_?"

He didn't respond at first, his gaze raking my face.

"They shouldn't, of course," he said softly, self-deprecatingly. "But…you'd think someone, eventually, would. Not because…or maybe especially because, well, I know it wouldn't be so terribly easy to love me." And then he shrugged.

And that was when I thought—

No.

No, it would be quite easy to love him.

Easier, in fact, than hating him. Since I suddenly wasn't so sure I did anymore.

Hate him, that is.

"What does this have to do with _anything_?" I croaked, my throat dry, my senses reeling.

"You tell me, Granger," he said vaguely, but he was smiling, kind of, his lips turned up at the corners, and for a second, half a second, I wanted to believe everything he wasn't saying, wanted to believe all the conclusions he was letting me draw because that smile, that smile was beautiful, but no no _no_ Malfoy didn't smile, not at me, not at anyone, which meant it wasn't real, none of it, and hadn't I learned my lesson?

_Hadn't_ I?

All of a sudden, I wanted to yell, scream, do something unexpected and out of control to shock him, stun him, let him know how embittered I was, was going to be; I wanted him to know I meant what I said, really meant it, and I wanted to be loud and disruptive and ostentatious, uncaring and indifferent and noisy.

"Every time you open your mouth, I wish I still hated you."

It was exquisite, the way his face fell, the way his eyes grew round, the way his mouth dropped open: he was a study in disappointment, his dashed hopes cluttering the space that loomed large and noticeable in between us.

It almost didn't matter that I'd whispered.

It almost didn't matter that the ensuing silence that enveloped us, buried us, was deafening.

Almost, but not quite.

Because it did, it really did.

Matter, that is.

OOO


	17. XVI

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: This took awhile. I'm sorry. But I'm pretty pleased with it, in the grand scheme of things. Not too many chapters left in this, though.

OOO

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

It was raining.

It was raining, and I couldn't sleep, not even a little bit. Every time my eyes would drift shut, every time I could feel my muscles contract, then relax, and then succumb to pure exhaustion; I would jerk awake, my hands gripping the sheets, and then wonder what was different, what was wrong, and then remember—_oh, that's right_.

Malfoy.

Malfoy was different.

Malfoy was wrong.

Malfoy was a liar and a bigot and fake, a hypocrite, all the things I'd hated and been better than and thought myself impervious to for forever. He was an egotist, a sycophant, completely undeserving of my attention, my affection, my time.

Except, suddenly, he wasn't just everything I hated, disdained, despised.

He was, very simply, _everything_.

My gaze locked on the corner of my bed; my palms began to drip sweat, cold sweat, my fingertips turning white as I clutched harder, more desperately, at my comforter. My mind was trapped, stuck, on that one word—_everything everything everything everything_—and I just kept repeating it, my lips parted.

But then I heard a clock strike two, and I was brought back to reality, and I was climbing out of bed before I could think, stop, and I was running, sprinting, almost, through the deserted hallways, dreaming a conception of clarity, and then I was slipping outside, raindrops slapping across my face, my neck, my chest, and I was racing for the lake, uncaring of anything but that shadow, that shape, standing on the shore, and then he was turning towards me, except I couldn't read his expression through all the rain, so much rain, but I skidded to a halt mere inches before I would have barreled into him, his arms, and I watched his throat as he swallowed, watched his eyes as they drifted down my body, watched the way his hair was plastered to his forehead, damp and dark, and I silently implored him to say something, say anything_, please please _please.

"Meeting the Weasel down here, Granger?" he asked coldly: _Come back, come back, just once._

"No. Why? Trying to convince him to dump Lavender now, are you?" I replied, my voice brittle: _Nothing could be worse than having absolutely nothing to lose, nothing at all._

"That's a thought," he mused, water dripping down his face. "It might be a bit more difficult than getting rid of _you _was, though."

I flinched: _Something must be wrong, _something_, when your heart can't break and your tears can't fall._

"Why are you being like this?" I whispered, numb: _And you're hollow, you're empty, and none of it matters._

"I don't know what you're talking about, Granger," he bit out. "I'm being normal. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"What?" I said, staring, confused: _It occurs to you that you're flying, sort of, just without the wings, and it's incredible, since even if you fall, the air's still rushing past, which is everything you wanted, all along, all the time._

"You _said_ you wanted everything to go back to normal. Isn't that what you wanted?" he repeated, his glare piercing, his tone needling: _No, but regret never felt so awful, I swear, I promise, never._

"Since when have you taken it upon yourself to give me what I want?"

He glanced down at me then, the rain running in glistening streams down his cheeks, and his lips pursed, as if his answer was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't get it out, couldn't bring himself to say it, and then he was taking a step back, away from me: _You can pretend it's an affliction, really, you can, I won't tell, I'll never tell._

"Since we both started wanting the same thing," he finally responded.

I didn't say anything: _An epiphany was my last priority._

"It's just…I _know_. I _know_, Granger, what you're talking about when you say you want to hate me, and you wish and wish and wish that you still could, and how simple life would go back to being if we…if everything just became _normal_ again. I _know_."

His words were coming in spurts, awkwardly tumbling out of his mouth—and I was fascinated: _Cruelty can be a comfort, sometimes, all the time, maybe._

"And…and I've been _trying_, trying so hard, to remember why, exactly, I used to spend so much time, so much energy, thinking of all these clever little insults, and I…I just _can't_. Remember, I mean. So I figured if I could just go back to hating you, if I could just go through the motions, saying all the things that made you hate me to begin with…I figured I could do us both a favor."

The rain was still falling in sheets and torrents, and the wind was still blowing, and we were still a foot apart, and that maddening lock of hair was still draped across his forehead, but all I could focus on was his eyes: they were gray and luminous through the violent bursts of water plummeting from the sky, and they were big and bright and oddly, amazingly sincere and they were boring into my own and disrupting all sorts of promises and emotions and they were _mesmerizing_, that was it, _mesmerizing_, and I wanted him and his eyes and it didn't even matter that I couldn't believe him because _I did_, I really did, but when I reached out my hand, all he did was look at it, his eyebrows drawn together.

"I'm tired of pretending," I said honestly: _Perfect posture and fabricated friendships are what you live for._

The rain continued to pound the ground, indestructible, glorious, even as my hand hung suspended between us.

"I'm tired," I said, swallowing, "of acting and lying and saying all these things that I don't mean, not anymore. I'm tired of waking up and looking the mirror and _not caring_, because there's no one to look pretty for. I'm tired of wishing I could cry, of wishing for things that aren't ever going to be real, come true. I'm tired of waiting for you to be honest, and waiting for you to care, and waiting for you to _notice _that _I do_. I _do_ care."

"Hermione," he began, taking a step forward.

"I'm so tired," I interrupted softly, brokenly, "of being _tired_."

And that was when I fell apart.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to be," I cried desperately, grasping grasping _grasping_ at any way I could possibly make it better, alleviate the pain, the stress, the confusion and the strain and the _pressure_, but he was shaking his head, smirking, almost, and I couldn't understand, comprehend, make any sense of any of it, and I was only dimly aware that I'd fallen to my knees, that the tears I'd so staunchly, so stupidly held back, were finally running in salty rivulets down my cheeks, down my chin, down my throat, mingling with the rain, and I only dimly aware that he was gathering me up in an embrace that could have been sweet, that could have been beautiful, and I was only dimly aware of my name being repeated, over and over: a benediction, a prayer, a promise, something sacred and holy and reassuring and pitiful, elegiac, _ordinary_.

"I had no idea," he whispered: _I can't be held accountable for all the things you make me wish for._

And the he kissed me.

He kissed me, and it continued to rain.

OOO


	18. XVII

**By the Way**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**:It's been an _extremely _long time, I know. But life caught up with me, and I got busy—I spent a good portion of the past three months sending a portion of what I'm hoping will be my first, published novel to various publishers, hoping for a response, something. I'm happy to say that I've gotten _a lot _of positive feedback, and that by the time I graduate, I might just have a contract. But we'll see.

Anyways.

This is the last chapter of this story. This is the end. When I sat down to write the rest of it, after my little three month hiatus, I reread the entire thing leading up to this, and realized that, for me, it was over. There were just a few loose ends, or emotions, to tie up. This story went in a way different direction than I'd initially anticipated (or hoped), and I'm not entirely sure what it means to me yet. There's a lot of significance in the more subtle aspects of it, but that could just be a personal reaction. I don't know.

So this is it.

The end.

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed and enjoyed it.

It was fun.

OOO

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

_Ever since I first heard the word in relation to reality, my reality that is, I've thought about what it meant—love. It's not the word so much as the meaning that elicits a multitude of emotions that vary between confusion and comfort, between fascination and feigned indifference, between happiness and caution and a thousand other things you can't really understand, not at first, since that isn't the point, is it? I don't think I'm supposed to understand it. I don't think that inherent certainty is something that should be understood. I don't know exactly when it happened, and I don't know exactly how it did; I don't remember the realization, and I don't remember the falling. I just remember knowing, suddenly, all at once, that this wasn't something ordinary._

I lifted my pen from the thick, white paper and reread the lines of script I'd sullied it with. I bit my lip before continuing.

_I know that you're not perfect, since perfection's unattainable, virtually impossible—but I know, too, that to me, you are. Which is essentially the most perplexing, engaging, astonishing, wonderful aspect of this thing I'm calling love: Its dichotomy, its contradiction by definition. How it makes so much sense in my mind, but as soon as I attempt to offer an explanation out loud, it breaches the barriers of logic. _

For so long, I'd craved the comfort and stability of facts, logic, knowledge. For so long, I'd believed that falling in love with Ron was destiny, since it made so much sense, endless, blessed sense, and that was all I really wanted, wasn't it?

The thing was, though, that it wasn't. It wasn't what I wanted. Not anymore. What I wanted was presently walking towards me, his languorous stride jarring my senses—_breathe, breathe, softly, slowly, deeply, don't_ _forget, don't stop, breathe, forget you're dizzy, forget it, breathe, breathe, Hermione._

"What are you so intent on?" he asked breezily, taking the seat next to me, our thighs brushing against each other, and reaching for the parchment in front of me.

My reflexes were dull, though, and I didn't think, couldn't think, to grab it out of his hands, even as I watched his eyebrows rise straight to his hairline as he began to read, even as I watched his lips purse, his jaw clench, his eyes skimming over the words that he was never supposed to see, the words he never should have seen.

And then he set down the paper very deliberately, swallowing.

And then he spoke:

"Hermione," he began.

"Don't say it," I interrupted brusquely.

"But--" he started.

"_Don't_," I said forcefully.

"I can't love you," he blurted out, and then he winced as it occurred to him how he sounded, how he looked, saying something like that, and oddly, rashly, ridiculously, I wanted to comfort him, pretend that it was completely fine with me, what he was doing, that he wasn't hurting me, couldn't hurt me, not ever, just so he wouldn't have to deal with the guilt.

Instead, I met his gaze, his desperate, searching gaze, and asked, painfully—

"_Why_?"

The word hung between us, awkwardly suspended, like a tightrope walker balanced dangerously, precariously, on his toes, the slightest breeze equating death.

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"I don't understand," I persisted weakly.

He closed his eyes, opened them, closed them again.

"I just can't, alright?" he murmured distractedly, running a hand through his hair.

"Can't or won't?"

Time seemed to stop, fleetingly, as he considered me, considered my question, considered everything—time, the only scarcity in life, in love, and he was acting like we had so much of it.

And that was when I began to get angry.

"Hermione, we were born into completely different worlds," he explained tiredly. "We hate each other, we hate each other's beliefs, we hate…well, isn't it enough that we hate each other? I _can't_ love you. You can't love me. It's an impossibility. It's like…I just can't. I _won't_."

A beat of silence, and then—

"You're a _coward_," I hissed, rage enveloping my mortification, my humiliation, the embarrassment I had every justifiable reason to succumb to. "How _dare_ you belittle what I feel for you, _felt_ for you, by dismissing it as something worthy of a dismissal. How _dare_ you pretend to ignore its legitimacy. You, of all people, should understand, _recognize_, even, how flimsy an excuse fatalism is. I spent half a lifetime thinking _Ron Weasley_ was the love of my life, my _forever_, if you will. I know what it feels like to have that belief shattered."

"Shattered?" he queried, expressionless.

"Yes. _Shattered_. You facilitated my collapse, you witnessed it, you reveled in it…and you _fixed it_. You fixed it. You made it better. Somehow. It's _always been you_. And you're sitting there, telling me you can't love me, that it's impossible because society will maim us with their disapproval, et cetera. _Spare me_."

I was breathing, finally, and I was thinking, finally, and he was listening—finally.

"I'm not a coward," he intoned, still gazing over my shoulder.

"Oh, really?" I returned, fluent in sarcasm.

"No."

"Well, I think you're wrong," I said scathingly. "I think you were _born_ a coward."

He flinched.

Silence stretched between us, indelible.

"_Why_ can't you, then? _Why_? Because you were _born_ to do otherwise?" I sneered, head spinning, heart breaking, so many thoughts crowding my mind that it hurt to try and organize them.

And that was when he changed, right before me, right in front of me, his shoulders straightening, his hands unmoving, his vulnerability obvious. It had never been more obvious.

"No," he mumbled, turning to look at me, into me.

"No _what_?" I demanded shakily, my lips trembling as I remembered, vividly, how he'd traced them with his fingertips, gently, lovingly.

"I wasn't born to hate you," he explained, a wry sort of sincerity softening his features. "I was born…" he trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Yes?"

"I was born," he continued quietly, "to tell you I love you."

I stared at him, at his face, at his eyes, at his mouth, at his pale, pale skin and his blond, blond hair; I stared, and I smiled.

"Can we start over?" I asked abruptly.

"What?" he countered stupidly, confusion clouding his eyes.

"Start over. From the beginning. Like we've never met."

He studied me, gauging me, and I felt like my past, my present, my entire future, even, was resting on his response.

"Hi, I'm Draco," he finally said, quirking his lips and holding out his hand.

This was it, I realized. This was everything I'd been living up to, waiting for, wanting; this was what I'd had dreams and nightmares about, what I'd wasted so much time agonizing over. This was it, and it was almost done. Over. Finished.

Or maybe it was just the start of something perfect.

Maybe it was just the beginning.

Maybe I'd finally found my forever.

"Hi," I whispered, taking his hand, entwining our fingers. "I'm complicated."

OOO

**THE END**


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